


Lessons For the Heart

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Co-workers, Disguise, F/M, Fluff and Angst, HP: EWE, Humor, Magic, Parent-Child Relationship, Partnership, Post-Hogwarts, Remix, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Spells & Enchantments, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-08
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-08-07 13:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 22,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7716007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione Granger is forced to take a new co-worker under her supervisory wing, one whose particular contributions to the company have the potential to boost profits considerably.  Unfortunately, he is obnoxious, conceited, arrogant – and impossible to ignore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Round 7 of the Dramione Couples Remix. My chosen couple: Abby Richter and Mike Chadway from the romantic comedy film, "The Ugly Truth."

13 July 2010  
Tuesday  
  
  
Heels clicking, staccato-like, on the polished floor of the upstairs corridor at number 129a, South Side, Diagon Alley, Hermione Granger strode briskly towards the one destination she didn’t much fancy spending any time in just at the moment: the office of the publisher of The Daily Prophet. Her boss, in other words. 

Not that she ever really enjoyed the time she was forced to spend there – interminable staff meetings in which Adolphus Cranford instructed her and the other managing editors on the best, most productive and most efficient ways to do their jobs. He’d offer little tips on time management, effective editorial delegating, and good professional practices, unfailingly presented with a magnanimous and benevolent smile. The gods’ gift to the newspaper business, that’s clearly how he fancied himself. You could practically see him patting himself on the back after such a meeting. 

How he could possibly imagine himself an expert on every facet of journalism, she had no idea, considering he’d come from the business world and had bought the paper merely as an investment. Or so everyone on staff had believed at the time. They were the professionals; surely they would be left to run the paper as they’d always done, without interference from the wealthy suit backing the enterprise behind the scenes. The problem was, he’d refused to stay there. Now, apparently, he was the final authority on international and national wizarding news, the crime beat, and even the Weekend and Lifestyle sections. His presumption of expertise regarding the latter two was probably the most ludicrous of all. Not surprisingly, his comments and suggestions – most of them unworkable at best and perfectly absurd at worst –really got under Hermione’s skin. Being able to pay her rent every month was pretty important, however, so she’d learned to temper her natural responses, biting back and swallowing a good deal of what would no doubt get her sacked otherwise.

Hermione let out a deep sigh. Sometimes, she didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to put up with A. Dullphus Crapford and his self-serving, fuckwitted rubbish. One day at a time, she reminded herself, resigned.

With a quick rap on the door, she pushed it open and poked her head inside just as the office’s inhabitant was vigorously clearing his throat.

“Come,” he barked, with a final, monumental hock.

Hermione suppressed a shudder, half expecting a generous glob of sputum to erupt from his mouth and fly in her direction. The man cleared his throat almost constantly, and the sound of it never failed to repulse her. The image of a shiny, brass spittoon popped into her head, making her mouth twitch. Perfect Yule gift; note to self.

“Late again, Ms. Granger,” the publisher remarked with a dangerously pleasant smile as she found a seat. He tilted his head in the direction of her colleagues, all of whom were sitting stiffly in the other chairs that were lined up facing the publisher’s desk. “That won’t do. Everyone else has been here for a good three minutes. Time is money, Ms. Granger. Time is money.”

Another very annoying habit: Crapford tended to repeat himself. Ad infinitum and most definitely ad nauseam. Furtive, almost imperceptible eye rolls and glances of exasperation passed amongst the various managing editors. But they remained silent, waiting for the day's topic to be revealed. Their boss had a sense of the dramatic, and they knew all too well that it could take some time before he warmed to his subject. In this, they were now surprised. Adolphus Cranford had no intention of beating about the bush with his staff. Today, he intended to get right to the point.

"We are losing money, people," he announced without ceremony, leaning forward on the desk, his florid, bulldog face thrusting in his staff's direction. "A lot of money. More Galleons than I care to count are being pissed away every single day, and do you have any idea why?" He leaned even further forward, his face flushing with anger. "Do you? _Any_ of you?"

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, casting a quick glance to her right and left. Everyone else was squirming as well, as they waited silently for the only answer: Cranford's. His question had been purely rhetorical. He wasn't remotely interested in their opinions on much of anything, least of all if they had to do with money and profits. _His_ profits in particular.

"No? Well, I'll tell you why. The Prophet is BORING. Dull as dishwater. Utterly predictable and far too safe. We need to take some risks, people. Shake things up. Change the image. Not worry so much about offending readers. Give the Prophet a bit of an _edge_.” 

He held up a hand as he saw various staffers begin to stir, their protests bubbling up. "My mind's made up. This is the new direction the paper will be taking. Gradually, bit by bit, we will make the paper over. I expect our profit margins will rise, perhaps slowly at first until our readership recognises that it's no longer the same old Daily Prophet, but then – if human nature prevails, and I believe it will do – we’ll be making money hand over fist.”

It was fairly obvious what Cranford had in mind. After all the hard work Hermione and the rest of the staff had done, post-war, to bring The Prophet up out of the gutter, he intended to turn it back into a rag, full of prurient, sensationalistic articles guaranteed to tickle the fancies of the simple, the starstruck, the gullible, those whose interests and natural inclinations could hardly be called high-minded or well-informed. Human nature at its worst, in other words.

Hermione suppressed a groan, marshaling her reaction into a single question. "What exactly did you have in mind, sir? Because I don't see –"

Cranford sat back in his chair, tilting comfortably as he folded his hands over his generous girth. "Funny you should be the one to ask, Ms, Granger. Because the very first change I plan to make involves one of your babies. Lifestyle," he added, seeing her brows shoot up in question. "Yes indeed, the Lifestyle section is about to welcome a brand-new writer. Never met him myself, but I did read his book, and it's bloody brilliant. _The Battle of the Sexes: What Men and Women Really Want_." Reaching into a drawer, he pulled out a slim volume and held it up for all to see. 

"’D. Moncrieff,’" Hermione read aloud. "How do you know it's a man?"

Cranford smiled benignly. "I don't, really. I suppose it _could_ be a woman, but I doubt it. Too much common sense. Funny, too. Let's face it, women don't have much of a sense of humour. No, I’ll wager this D. Moncrieff is a man." He held out the book to Hermione, nodding for her to take it. "Your assignment, Ms. Granger, is two-fold: first, read the book. Absorb it. Let it get under your skin. Then meet with D. Moncrieff. I have already contacted him through his literary agent with my offer. He – "

"Or she," Hermione interjected, bristling.

Cranford sighed with forced patience. "Or she, yes. He _or she_ has accepted the offer and is ready to meet with you at your convenience. Don't take too long, Ms. Granger. Time is money, and I want a first column along the lines of what's in the book ASAP. By next week, no later. There is plenty of material there. Focus on one topic per column. Shouldn't be too difficult. Moncrieff will write and you will oversee the process and then edit. However, I do not want it tidied up and expunged of what makes it good, juicy reading in the first place," he warned. "You will allow Moncrieff to flex those writing muscles and come up with something that will get readers fired up and hooked." He gave Hermione a sweet smile, but it had an edge of steel. "Do we understand each other?"

Oh, they understood each other all right. Hermione’s mouth set itself in a tight line and she nodded grimly. No point in arguing. When Crapford made up his mind, there was no talking him round. She was well and truly stuck with a writer whose work she didn’t know (and how dare her boss go over her head and hire someone for her department without a word!) and whom she would now have to babysit while he wrote a load of amateurish shite. She’d be the one stuck with whipping said shite into shape, assuming there was anything of real value left after the initial vetting. Probably full of trendy colloquialisms meant to appeal to vapid Millennials at the expense of good grammar and sentence structure, never mind actual substance. 

And that was another thing. Substance. His book was titled _The Battle of the Sexes: What Men and Women Really Want._ Just what the world needed, yet another self-help book full of really rubbish advice and alleged “insights.” She could just imagine what he’d have to say on the subject. Not that she’d have to leave it to her imagination for very long, apparently. Cranford was pressing her to get moving on this project post-haste. He’d be breathing down her neck every day until she had something to show him. 

Might as well get that first meeting over with as soon as possible. She was a fast reader and the volume was fairly lightweight. (Probably reflective of the content, she found herself thinking acidly.) She could polish it off in a single sitting tonight, accompanied by a large glass of something decidedly alcoholic to dull the inevitable edges of irritation and boredom. 

Gesturing impatiently, Adolphus Cranford held the book out to her. She took it, nodding briefly, and resumed her seat. There was more to the agenda, but not much else stayed with Hermione after that point. The book was burning a hole in the lap of her skirt and she found herself growing increasingly annoyed at being put in such an untenable position – child-minder to a rank amateur who had probably self-published, for so D. Moncrieff had already become in her mind – taking her away from legitimate work that was far more important and pressing.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Two days later  
8 pm  
  
  
Owls had been dispatched, messages exchanged, and a preliminary meeting set for this very evening. The choice of place had raised an eyebrow, confirming Hermione’s already negative impressions of this D. Moncrieff. He had requested that they meet, just the two of them, at a pub in Muggle London – a rather sketchy one, at that, from the sound of it.

“Come alone and keep our meeting place to yourself,” the note had instructed.

Weirdly paranoid, she thought, leaning closer to the mirror to check her reflection one final time. The svelte, black, figure-hugging frock she wore was one of her favourites, though she didn’t often get to enjoy it. Bought on a whim, it was far too sexy for any of the dull Prophet functions, and it was rare that any dates she had ever inspired her to put this particular dress on. But tonight, she would be meeting with a total stranger, someone she had no particular need to impress, especially as she would be his boss. She could be as outrageous as she liked. And anyway, they would be in a drinking establishment, it would be dimly lit and probably smoky, and the other women there would surely be flaunting what they had as provocatively as possible. Damn the torpedoes, she thought with a tiny giggle, almost giddy with defiance. If she had to do this, at least she would make it as much fun as possible. Pouring herself a finger of fire whiskey, she tossed it back with a small shudder, patted her hair one final time, and sighed. Right, so much for Dutch courage. Time to go.

No Apparation would be possible this night; the ordinary, non-magical way would have to do. Taking the Underground to the London Bridge stop, it would be just a short walk to her destination. 

As she emerged from the Tube station into the soft, dusky light of this early summer evening, she glanced up at the nearby street sign and her mouth twitched into a wry half-smile. Druid Street. D. Moncrieff had a sense of humour, it would seem. One more block should find her in Tooley Street.

The Mug House (another in-joke, surely!) at number 1-3 Tooley Street was not immediately visible, and for a couple of minutes, Hermione walked up and down the street, peering at the numbers above the doors and frowning, perplexed. 

“Whatcha lookin’ for, love?” A friendly voice at her elbow interrupted her thoughts.

“Oh, um… The Mug House, actually. I’m meeting somebody there, and I’m afraid I’m a bit late now!” she replied, smiling tremulously at a man in slightly shabby clothes. “Do you know it?”

“’Course, everybody knows The Mug. My home from home, if you know what I mean.” The man grinned and winked, then took Hermione’s elbow and turned her around to face a short, arched tunnel of concrete. “Just there, love. See?”

And suddenly, she did. There was the entrance, halfway down the tunnel on the left side. Painted bright red and cheerfully adorned with a manicured, potted tree on either side of the door, the Mug House beckoned. Just then, the door swung open and a couple came out, laughing and arm in arm. A rush of interior noise accompanied them briefly and then cut off as soon as the door closed; the pub was clearly busy tonight.

“Well, th–” Hermione began, turning to her benefactor, but he was gone. She shrugged slightly and headed towards the entrance, where the wall of noise greeted her once again as she pulled open the heavy doors.

Inside, the veritable warren of rooms seemed to extend indefinitely. There were arched ceilings, panels of very old wood, overhangs chockablock with barrels and tools half in shadow, small, cosy, candlelit alcoves of mellow, exposed brick and luminous old oak, framed prints on deep, crimson-painted walls, all of it reminders of bygone eras. Far nicer than what she’d been led to expect, The Mug was a genuinely attractive watering hole, but one with history. It had obviously been in Tooley Street for at least a hundred years, if not more. Hermione found herself drifting off into her own thoughts, imagining the place in the era of gaslight and Jack the Ripper. That shadowy tunnel would provide the ideal place for working girls to ply their trade…

A moment of daydreaming passed; then, shaking herself out of her reverie, Hermione cast her gaze slowly around the room, but saw nobody sitting alone except for two men at the bar: one was far too young to be D. Moncrieff (had he even started to shave yet, she wondered), but the other one looked a bit too old to have authored the sort of book that Adolphus Cranford had hired him to duplicate in the pages of The Prophet.

Of course, one never knew, did one, so Hermione reasoned, making her way to the bar and seating herself there. She cast a quick, sidelong glance at the man to her right. Sixty-ish, she guessed; he looked to the casual observer like someone just stopping by his local for a quick pint before heading home after work.

He seemed to be taking a covert interest in her, however. So she smiled briefly and looked him in the eye.

“Hello,” she ventured, still not sure whether she was on the verge of making a complete arse out of herself. 

Now the man turned his head to gaze at her directly. “Well, hello there,” he replied, evidently flattered. “Here on our own, are we?”

“Well,” Hermione began slowly, feeling her way, her smile wavering just a bit. “Perhaps not for too long…” _Why in the world did I just say that?_

Her words had exactly the effect that instantly, she knew they would. She knew, too, without a question, that this was _not_ D. Moncrieff. The man moved his stool a bit closer, and suddenly, his face and beery breath were a bit too close for comfort.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” he said, laying a meaty hand on hers and eyeing her appreciatively, his eyes moving slowly from her neck to her knees and back again. “What can I get for you? You look like a cocktail sort of girl to me, am I right?”

Slipping off the stool, Hermione tried to manage a gracious smile of departure. This was not going at all well, and she still had no idea where D. Moncrieff was, assuming he was actually there at all. He had better be, she thought angrily. 

“You’re not leaving so soon, are you?” the older man crooned. “Just when we were getting to know each other.”

“Sorry, but I’m afraid she is,” a third voice broke in, laughing. “What happened, darling, lose your way? Should I be jealous?” 

And before Hermione knew it, somebody had taken firm hold of her arm and was steering her towards one of the intimate alcoves lit by flickering candlelight. Pushed unceremoniously down into a chair at the table, she looked up and around, to find her rescuer just settling himself in the seat opposite to her. Dressed in a black crewneck shirt, jeans, and a pearl-grey sport jacket, he looked as if he’d just stepped from the pages of a trendy men’s fashion magazine. Longish blond hair cut to look smartly shaggy, and just a hint of attractive stubble on his jaw and cheeks. Grey eyes assessed her coolly, and he smiled.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Hermione Granger in the flesh, and looking quite… surprising. Yes, that’s the word I want. Quite pleasantly surprising, in fact.”

Not yet over her initial shock, Hermione fell back in the chair. “ _Draco Malfoy?_ Seriously? _You’re_ D. Moncrieff?”

“I am.”

After that, he fell silent, content simply to watch Hermione with a faintly amused expression on his face. 

Suddenly, the pseudonym and his desire for secrecy made sense. Such a literary endeavour would hardly be well received in Pureblood circles. Still, it was a shock. “That’s it?” she retorted. “That’s all you’re going to say? What about an explanation for all of this! How on earth did _you_ come to write a book like _this?_ ” Hermione had pulled the slender volume out of her bag and how she held it up, brandishing it almost in his face. “I mean, this is… it’s…”

“Vulgar? Crude? Chauvinistic? Outrageous?”

“Exactly!” Hermione sat back, surprised at his relaxed candour. Then she gathered herself once again and leaned in more closely. Drinks had appeared, though they hadn’t ordered. He’d got this whole evening well in hand, so it seemed. Very slick, she found herself thinking, as she reached to take a sip of something fruity and very exotic looking. “I can’t imagine any respectable publisher choosing to take this on. You self-published, didn’t you!”

He nodded, but remained silent. He’d let her finish, get all that rubbish out of her system.

“Why in the world did you write it in the first place? Furthermore, what made you think that this would sell? Maybe to men, yes, but not to women, at least not to women with any brains in their heads!”

“Ah, but you see, Granger, that’s just it. My book _does_ sell to women, all sorts of women in fact. And do you know why?” Draco smiled pleasantly, but there was an assured canniness in his eyes that told her he knew exactly what he was about at all times.

“It sells,” he continued, “because it tells the _truth. _It may not always be a truth women want to hear – maybe not even some men, though I suspect that those ‘sensitive’ blokes aren’t the ones interested in women in the first place – but that doesn’t detract from the essential honesty the book offers. And women, smart women, recognise that. They twig to it pretty quickly. In fact, I’ve had a lot of women write to me and say that reading my book made their relationships much stronger, because they finally understood what their men were all about.”__

“So… we women can just forget about finding a man who truly understands us, someone who is intelligent and thoughtful, considerate of our feelings, sensitive – yes, sensitive!” she protested hotly when he snickered half under his breath. “Strong, too, ambitious but ethical… romantic…”

It was evident that she was just warming up. Draco sat back, that same faint smile on his face, and sipped his drink. 

“You forgot creative,” he reminded her mildly when she paused at last, finishing his drink and signaling to the waiter to refresh their glasses. “Don’t tell me. You’ve actually got a checklist, haven’t you, Granger.”

“Well,” she replied, her chin coming up defensively, “yes. As a matter of fact, I do. It helps on dates, you see. I can get right to the point and see if a man is worth my time. “

Now Draco registered genuine astonishment. “You mean you actually take that list with you on dates and refer to it? In front of the chap you’re out with?”

“Well, yes.” Hermione was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. “I mean, why not? It’s a good icebreaker, and it keeps the conversation focused. And it does tell me if the man in question should be considered for a second date.”

Draco laughed out loud, punctuating his laughter with a final, deep sigh as he sat back, loose-limbed, in his seat. “Assuming any of these poor sods ever ask. Have many second dates, do you?”

In truth, she didn’t, as a rule. She’d always told herself that they hadn’t come up to snuff anyway, that she hadn’t wanted to go out with any of them a second time. 

“Look, Granger. I’ll put my book up against your checklist any time, and I’ll wager my book will come out on top. Exactly,” he drawled, his grin insufferably smug, “where I like to be. I may have written the book for my own entertainment, but the message is a valid one.” 

Here we go, Hermione thought grimly. 

“Men are simple. We are in no way the complex creatures women want us to be. We have simple needs: food, shelter, tickets to our team’s Quidditch matches, the liquid poison of our choice, and sex. A lot of sex. As much and as often as possible, preferably.

“Oh, sure, we’ll go along with the sweets and flowers, the candlelit dinners and the long, moonlit walks. But they are just the requisite means to an end. Women need to understand this and not look for complications where none exist. The only thing they need to do to snag a bloke is look really good and keep their opinions to themselves. We really aren’t interested in what you ladies think anyway.”

This was too much. Draco Malfoy had not changed one iota since their school days. He was just as arrogant and obnoxious as ever. The only difference was that the packaging was a lot more grown up looking. 

“I don’t know how on earth you and I are ever going to work together, Malfoy,” she retorted. “ I detest everything you stand for. This is going to be utterly impossible!”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied smoothly. “Might be quite an edifying experience for you.” A glint came into his eye just then, and he flashed her a sly smile. “Tell you what, Granger. I’ll make you a deal. No, no,” he added hastily, seeing her begin to bristle once again. “Reckon you’ll like this idea. Let’s make a bet, shall we? My method and understanding of the sexes versus yours. You select a chap you’re interested in. But you pursue him according to my instructions. You must do everything I say, and I mean _everything._ If you succeed with him and he turns to putty in your hands, I win. My column eventually becomes a daily feature instead of a weekly one. And you acknowledge that I’m right and that my book is not just a load of bollocks. If my method fails to get you the guy, then you win and I will resign from the paper, no questions asked.”

“No matter what Cranford says or what he offers you?”

Draco nodded somberly. “No matter what. I don’t need the money. I’m not doing it for that. There is nothing he can offer to induce me to stay if I’ve genuinely lost the bet. You have my word.” Carefully, he dropped his voice. “Wizard’s honour.”

Well, that sounded like a reasonably fair deal and a safe bet. One, in fact, that she couldn’t possibly lose. Because of course, not all men were what he said. There _were_ sensitive, intelligent, caring men out there who were genuinely interested in what a woman thought and felt and were ready to treat her as an equal worthy of respect. There _had_ to be. She would find one (there was that very attractive chap on the second floor, the one in Editorial she'd had her eye on for some time) and then she would show that impossibly arrogant man that he was wrong, wrong, wrong.

Now she stuck her hand out. “Deal!” 

He grasped it, and for a split second, she had the sense that he was about to bring her fingertips to his mouth for a kiss. The moment passed, however; he merely shook her hand firmly and let it go.

“Deal,” he repeated, clearly satisfied. “We start tomorrow.”  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
16 July  
Friday morning  
  
  
D. Moncrieff didn’t let any grass grow under his feet, it seemed. Bright and early the following morning, as The Daily Prophet opened its doors, he was there, looking, Hermione observed, like an eager puppy. Or more accurately, half eager puppy and half jaded man of the world who was gracing her doorstep strictly as a favour and for no other reason. At least she thought it was Malfoy. He’d transformed himself with some sort of Glamour that had rendered him virtually unrecognizable except possibly to his mother. And to Hermione, at whom he’d winked conspiratorially from behind a pair of sunglasses and then held up a copy of his book.

Apparently, the Glamour was quite effective where the rest of the wizarding world was concerned, because several female employees of The Prophet walked right by him without the slightest notion of who he was. Not that they didn’t take note of him, however. That was evident from their lingering, backward glances and identical, rather soppy smiles they flashed in his direction. Leave it to Malfoy. Even disguised, he was as ridiculously attractive as ever.

Unsure of which was the more annoying, his current affectation or their reaction to it, she pushed past him and marched down the long corridor into her office. He was right behind her.

“Close the door!” she snapped, gesturing impatiently. 

Pushing the heavy, old door shut, he leaned against it with the familiar, loose-limbed slouch she remembered from their school days.

“Eager to get me alone, I see,” he drawled. “Tsk, Granger, no need for such theatrics. I’m ready and willing, and completely at your disposal. I trust that you’ve looked over my book again and selected a chapter you’d like me to work up for the first article.”

At the first comment, Hermione had stopped in her tracks in the middle of getting herself settled at her desk. Now she straightened and turned to eye him balefully.

“Look, Malfoy.”

“That’s Moncrieff to you, darling.”

“ _Malfoy_ ,” she hissed. This was going to be even worse than she’d anticipated, and they hadn’t been alone in her office for even five minutes yet. “I shall call you whatever I like. Allow me to remind you that you work for me.”

“Well, yes, in a manner of speaking.” He shrugged lightly and dropped into a chair facing her desk. “Technically, I work for myself. I was hired as an independent freelance writer. Cranford is keeping it conditional until he sees how my columns are received.”

“As well he should do!” Hermione snapped. This was actually news to her, welcome news. It meant that their wager was weighted even more heavily in her favour. It also meant that Malfoy must be feeling pretty damned cocky and self-assured to have made such a bet. “Nevertheless,” she went on, “as I am your immediate supervisor, you do work for me. And I’ll expect the proper deference, if you don’t mind.”

He smiled slowly, and there was a feeling of danger at the sight of it somehow, like watching a predator bare his teeth. “Deference is my middle name, love. Especially where beautiful women are concerned.” At Hermione’s startled look, he laughed. “Surprised? I’ll confess, I am. I wouldn’t have expected it, but you’ve definitely improved with age, Granger. Even the hair. That must’ve taken a spell or two.”

She bristled, and her unconscious frown brought on another amused chuckle from him. “Okay, okay, don’t get your lacies in a twist. It _was_ meant to be a compliment. And yes, I do know and appreciate a lovely woman when I see one. Trust me. I’ve done the research.”

“I’ll just bet you have,” Hermione muttered darkly, busying herself with some papers on her desk and wanting to look anywhere but at his smug, conceited face. 

Rising from his chair, Draco leaned forward, catching her arm and forcing her to give him her full attention.

“How d’you reckon I was able to write this book then, eh?” he demanded. “Experience, Granger. First-hand experience. I know a thing or two about what men look for, what turns them on. It’s all there in the book. You did read it, yeah?”

In point of fact, she had – or at least, most of it, anyway. If under oath, she’d be forced to admit she hadn’t read quite all of it word for word. The chapter about the physical attributes men seek in a woman had annoyed her so much by the end of the first paragraph that she’d skipped it entirely, moving on to the next.

“Well, yes – I mean, I did, but…”

“But you missed some crucial bits here and there, is that it?”

Chagrined, she nodded. Such an admission was really not a good start. They’d hardly begun and already, it was Advantage: Malfoy. She would have to recover somehow, or their working relationship would be forever skewed in his favor and she’d never be able to exert any professional influence on the project again.

“No worries,” he continued blithely. “I’ll just show you then, shall I? What about that bloke you went on about the other night? That was all hypothetical, wasn’t it. There is no such person, really, is there.” He sat back and gazed at her expectantly, a self-satisfied grin nudging the corners of his mouth. 

She thought fast. Keith Patrick from Editorial came to mind again. Nice chap, very attractive, polite and intelligent. Quite fit, as well. The perfect combination, in other words. He’d seemed noticeably friendly the last time they’d briefly chatted in the lunch queue. He’d do nicely.

“There is, actually,” she replied airily. “He works here at the Prophet, up on the second floor. He’s quite perfect, really: handsome, clever, polite, articulate… exactly the sort of man I’m looking for.”

Draco looked faintly surprised at that, but he managed to contain it. Folding his arms, he grinned. “Right, then. Where’s your parchment?”

Hermione blinked. “Why –”

“Message him. The Prophet’s got inter-office Owl service, yeah?”

She nodded.

“Okay. Good. Send him a message asking him out. Except don’t sign your name.”

“But…” She was confused. “Then he won’t know who it’s from!”

“Exactly. Pique his interest and stroke his ego, but keep him guessing. Make sure to leave some clue as to where the message came from, though. You’ve got a stamp for this department, I assume?”

Hermione nodded again. 

“Use it. He’ll turn up here by lunchtime, you’ll see. And when he does, you act all friendly and chipper – you _are_ capable of that, yeah?”

“ _Malfoy…_ ”

“But do NOT admit to sending the message. At least not to him. Laugh and tell him you’d made a mistake, that it had been meant for somebody else.”

Hermione frowned. “I don’t know about this. I hate playing games. It’s all so phony and pointless.”

Draco smiled serenely, tilting back in the chair and folding his arms behind his head. “Ah, but that’s what it’s all about between men and women: deliciously dangerous little games, small but decisive thrusts and parries that keep the spark between the sexes ignited.” 

Thrusts and parries indeed. Trust Draco Malfoy to choose the most baldly suggestive metaphors possible.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked, not at all sure about any of this herself.

“No questions, remember?”

Hermione sighed. Finding herself in this position – trusting this man out of all the men in the world – was bizarre to say the least. Where it would lead, she couldn’t begin to guess. But she _would_ win this wager and get rid of him, one way or the other. Of that, she had no doubt.


	2. Chapter 2

Much to Hermione’s amazement (and frankly, to her chagrin as well), everything happened exactly as Malfoy had predicted. It was almost as if it had been staged in advance. Exactly one hour after a small owl took off with Hermione’s message attached to its leg, Keith Patrick appeared at her office door, knocking twice.

He poked his head around the door, looking somewhat bemused. “Hello, Hermione. You, uh… you asked me to dinner?” The question was delivered in a frankly incredulous tone. “You did, didn’t you?” he added somewhat uncertainly a moment later, when she didn’t immediately jump up and confirm.

Play it cool, she told herself. Malfoy was seated at a makeshift desk next to hers, and he kept his head down. But she could see his eyes sliding in a sideways glance in her direction and his mouth twitched ever so slightly.

“Oh!” she trilled, with a tiny giggle. “Oh my gosh, Keith! I’m so sorry! Did _you_ get my note? I simply can’t imagine how such a mix-up could have happened! How embarrassing!” She rose from her chair and moved closer to the tall, attractive young man still standing near the door and looking as if he were ready to flee. 

“Please accept my apology, Keith.” Hermione smiled up at him, laying a hand lightly on his arm. She was just close enough that now he got a generous whiff of her provocative new perfume (courtesy of D. Moncrieff, who apparently travelled well prepared for all eventualities). 

Keith blinked once, twice, and then seemed to visibly collect himself. “No worries, Hermione. These things happen, don’t they. I’ll just… Well…” He glanced at his watch and brightened, as if the watch’s face had suddenly offered him a reprieve. “The lunch queue awaits. Join me?”

“I’d love to…” she began, and felt a swift kick in the ankle from beneath the smaller desk just behind her. “Er, no, sorry, just remembered. Ha ha. It’s going to be a working lunch for me today, I’m afraid. Moncrieff and I –”

At this, Draco looked up from his work with a sunny grin and waved. Keith returned the wave awkwardly, stuffing his hand into his pocket afterwards as if it were a live thing that needed restraining.

“Moncrieff and I have loads to do to get his first column put to bed. Another time?”

Keith nodded, visibly disappointed now as he backed towards the door. “’Course. Yeah. Another time. See you, Hermione.”

“Bye,” she murmured, and then shut the door behind him. Turning to face Draco, she frowned. “I don’t understand. He invited me to have lunch with him. Isn’t that a _good_ thing?”

“Yeah, ‘course it is. It’s exactly what we wanted.”

“Then how come I didn’t accept?”

Draco sighed. Clearly, he could take nothing for granted in the intuition department where Hermione Granger and men were concerned. No wonder she had no love life.

“Because, Granger, you can’t be _too_ eager and available. You want to reel him in slowly, just a bit at a time. Finesse and delicacy, Granger. A light touch, yeah? I guarantee you, he’ll be back, and next time, it’ll be with a real invitation, not just a crap lunch in the caff here at work.” She opened her mouth to protest and he raised a pointed finger and shook his head. 

“Ah ah. Remember, you do this my way. Now. The column can wait. We’re going out for a bit.” 

And with that, he took her by the arm and steered her out the door.

“Malfoy, this is ridiculous!” she sputtered, trying and failing to extricate herself from his grip as they walked. “I really do have loads to do today. I can’t be swanning about doing frivolous things in the middle of a workday! Where in Merlin’s name are you taking me?” 

Without skipping a beat, Draco cast a mysterious, sidelong grin in her direction. “Patience, Granger. You’ll find out soon enough.”

Arriving at the oversized hearth connecting The Prophet to the Floo Network, he scooped a handful of Floo powder from the staff jar, pulling her inside the cavernous fireplace and looping her arm through his.

“Elvira Middleton’s establishment!” he sang out, dashing the powder to the floor in an explosion of green fire and sparks.

“Who –” Hermione began, and then they vanished.

A moment later, they stepped out of a strange fireplace in a dimly lit room suffused with aromatic scents of lavender and freesia. Candles were lit all around the room, winking and glowing from every conceivable surface. There were mirrors everywhere, too, of every possible size and shape, casting their reflections back to them at least twentyfold. 

“Malfoy! Where in the world have you brought me, and why? Who is Elvira Middleton?” Hermione hissed impatiently, her eyes narrowing as she looked around the room.

“I am,” a woman replied, entering the room with a haughty smile. “Welcome to my salon.” She moved closer to Draco, her smile softening now and becoming noticeably warmer and more inviting. “It is so nice to see you again, _mon cher_. You have brought someone new, I see. Always someone new, it seems. You are such a bad boy, Draco, leaving so many broken hearts behind!” She pulled a faux pout. “Including mine.” And then she winked playfully. “Never mind, _mon cher_. All is forgiven.”

He chuckled briefly at that. “None of that, now, Elvira. And anyway, this isn’t what you think. Hermione Granger, meet Elvira Middleton. She is the mistress of makeovers. You name it, she can do it: Glamours, actual makeovers, the lot. She could make a Blast-ended Skrewt look good. Not that you need anything quite so radical, of course,” he hastened to reassure Hermione, who was now looking daggers at him and fuming.

“The raw material is actually surprisingly decent,” he continued.

“Gosh, thanks,” Hermione muttered, reclaiming her arm at last and glowering at him.

“But it does need a bit of tweaking. Your hair, for instance. Not bad. But it’s not nearly long enough. Men like long, luxuriant hair on a woman, hair they can get lost in, run their fingers through and play with.” Plunging his hand abruptly into her hair, he wound a lock around his fingers and then watched as it unraveled itself. “See? Not enough of it to really satisfy. Elvira will get that sorted, for starters.” Without waiting for her to reply, he went on.

“And your clothes. They’re not unattractive, exactly, but they’re …” He paused, searching for the right word. “Boring. _Safe_. Wrong message entirely if what you want is to get a man’s attention.” His gaze dropped to her chest and he frowned. “Perfect example right there. Far too buttoned up. Allow me.” Reaching over, he swiftly unfastened the top three buttons of her blouse, pulling it open enough to reveal some bare skin. Then he shook his head and sighed. 

“What now?” Hermione asked impatiently. 

“No cleavage. What woman doesn’t have at least some cleavage? What sort of bra are you wearing?”

What sort of _bra_ was she wearing? Was he joking? Of all the nerve… Hermione’s mouth dropped open and she could feel a hot blush coming on.

Apparently her flaming cheeks and goldfish-like expression were answer enough. Draco smiled knowingly. “That’s what I thought. Something functional and plain. What you need is something with sex appeal. Something lacy and frankly, a bit naughty.”

“Not a push-up! I hate push-ups!” she protested weakly, recognizing the futility of her words even as they came out of her mouth.

“Comfort over sex appeal – see, choices like that are the root of your problem, Granger. A push-up is _exactly_ what you should be wearing to show off those lovely tits of yours. They’re completely wasted in whatever contraption you’ve got on right now. You need proper lingerie, Granger. Not something your eighty-year-old granny might wear.”

Lovely tits? Nonplussed, Hermione looked down at her chest. Really? Suddenly, she felt quite naked, as if Malfoy had been able to see right through her clothing to the bare flesh beneath. The fire in her cheeks had spread; now it smoldered between her legs and at the tips of those “lovely tits” Malfoy had just been appraising. She hoped fervently that he couldn’t see the physical effect of his words, but she was sure, somehow, that it was all too obvious.

A faint, amused smile was playing about his lips when she glanced up at last. Oh gods. He _could_ see, and he was thoroughly enjoying it. Wanting nothing more than to crawl under the nearest rock and hide there for a few decades, Hermione turned away, wishing she’d never agreed to this stupid bet. What version of herself would emerge when Elvira got through with her, she couldn’t even imagine.

In the meantime, Draco was all business. “Right, then,” he said briskly. “Elvira, work your magic. The hair first. See what you can do with her.”

Elvira cocked her head to one side, her eyes narrowing as she looked her new client up and down. “Rather a lot to accomplish in a single session, _mon cher._ This will be costly.”

“I’m good for it. You know that,” he replied mildly, still gazing at Hermione. “Maybe a hair style that shows off her neck. It’s really rather pretty. And now, I’m off for a bit. When shall I come and collect her?”

“I will require at least two hours,” Elvira said, doubt and scepticism evident in her voice. “There is much to do.” 

_**How** much? Do I look **that** bad?_

“Done.” A moment later, Draco had stepped into the hearth and vanished, green sparks sputtering in his wake. 

Feeling very much like a fly that had blundered into a spider’s sticky lair, Hermione turned with some trepidation to face Elvira, who smiled pleasantly. 

She pointed to a nearby chair. 

“Sit.”  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Precisely two hours later, a small eruption in the hearth signaled Draco’s return. He strolled into the back room of the salon just as Elvira was just putting the finishing touches on Hermione’s hair. Neither noticed him as he stood quietly several feet away, watching.

Raising a hand to Summon a nearby hand mirror, Elvira smiled, obviously satisfied, and held the mirror before her subject’s face.

“There now, you see? It’s a vast improvement, if I do say so myself. No need for all the worry and fuss!”

The first hour in Elvira’s clutches had been a dizzying round of one piece of clothing after another appearing and disappearing from Hermione’s body at almost lightning speed. The older witch’s wand was in constant motion, reminding Hermione of a frenzied orchestra conductor under the influence of a Hurry-Up Potion. No time for modesty; before she knew what had hit her, she’d been stripped down to her underwear, her trusty, old bra vanishing and being replaced by another and then yet another, all of them lacy and alluring; finally, when Elvira had got the bra question sorted to her own satisfaction, the next round had begun with a string of provocatively low-cut tops. Skirts and trousers had followed, all of them slinky and form fitting in a variety of fabrics. Admittedly, they were really quite nice, though a lot tighter than Hermione generally had the nerve to even consider, much less wear.

Finally, shoes. Nothing conservative or sensible, no low heels. These shoes oozed raw sex appeal, from the pointy toes to the slender stiletto heels. 

“Bloody hard to actually _walk_ in these things, you know,” Hermione had grumbled, wobbling about the salon in the four-inch spiked heels. “I mean, look at them – they’re practically lethal weapons!” She shot a surreptitious scowl in Elvira’s direction. _What do you care what you’re putting me through? You’re wearing carpet slippers!_

Several complete ensembles later, it was time for the final leg of her makeover: make-up and hair. A lesson on the proper application of make-up was first. It was clear from her exasperation that Elvira had rarely met a woman so in need of her tutelage. 

“Not that you’re unattractive, mind,” she’d remarked. “But you do have a lot to learn about making the best use of your assets. Observe.”

A full hour of her face, hair and scalp being exposed to creams, tonics, elixirs of varying hues and scents, and obscure enhancing spells Hermione had never heard of before, all without benefit of a mirror, had her distinctly jittery. What on earth must she look like now? Would she wind up looking as if her finger had got stuck in an electric socket? Once, when she was very small, she’d put her finger into an exposed socket despite her dad’s warning to stay away until he’d repaired it. The shock had sent her crying to her mother, her finger red and throbbing. She’d never forgotten the experience. The current had tingled all the way to her scalp, and she’d gazed at her reflection in the mirror later, half expecting to find her already wavy hair in tight, corkscrew curls or possibly shocked into stick-straightness.

Now, as Elvira held the mirror up, the reflection gazing back at Hermione was astonishing enough to silence her completely for several seconds. A masculine voice filled the momentary breach.

“Fuck me, Granger, is that really you?”

Damned if she knew. Laughing self-consciously, Hermione turned away from the mirror. “Do you… do you like it? Do I look ridiculous?”

Draco came a bit closer and circled her, thoughtfully stroking his chin with two fingers as he examined her transformed self from every possible angle. “Ridiculous?” he replied at last, stopping behind her. “No, that’s not the word that comes to mind.” Bending so that his chin nearly rested on her shoulder and his reflection joined hers in the mirror, he smiled, satisfaction now replacing his initial surprise.

“No, I’d say ‘ravishing’ is a lot closer to the mark.”

“Ravishing” was hardly the way Hermione would ever have described herself. “Attractive”? Yes. Even “decently pretty,” possibly, on a good hair day. But “ravishing”? Never. And yet, it was true. The young woman looking back at them both had a sophisticated, timeless allure. Her hair, a pleasant enough chestnut brown, now had warm, red-gold highlights that imparted a rich, sun-kissed glow and sheen. Swept up into a luxuriant French twist, loose tendrils curling about her ears and the base of her neck and softly framing her face, it shone with health and radiance, accentuating her slender neck and the delicacy of her features.

Crystal earrings sparkled with their own tiny fires at her ear lobes. Beneath a smart, business-appropriate summer blazer in cream was a strapless top in coral that offered a generous hint of very nice cleavage. This fact was not lost on Malfoy, whose gaze fell quite brazenly to her chest and lingered there, a faint but clearly appreciative smile playing about his lips. Then he leaned in even more closely, his lips almost touching her ear, his warm breath ruffling the tendrils curling there.

“Stand up, Granger. Let’s have a look at the bottom half, shall we?”

Rising from her chair, she turned to face him. The scrutiny with which he regarded her, now that he could see the whole package at once, was intense. Blushing, she tried not to notice the slow, careful deliberation of his gaze as he examined the snugly fitting pencil skirt and heels in matching cream that completed the ensemble.

However, his words, coming a moment later, completely belied the notion that he might have been looking at her with desire. Not that she wanted him to, of course. Ridiculous idea. Absolutely preposterous. Still…

“Very nice indeed,” he concluded crisply. He could have been evaluating the clothing on a mannequin. “I won’t ask what you’ve got on underneath, but judging by the vast improvement, I’ll wager it’s something quite tasty, if I know Elvira.”

Blushing hotly now, Hermione opened her mouth to reply, but before she could utter a syllable, he was speaking again, turning now to the older witch. “Brilliant work, Elvira. I almost wouldn’t have recognised her.”

Feeling distinctly like a specimen beneath a magnifying glass, the centre of attention and yet oddly superfluous at the same time, Hermione stood there awkwardly, confused. The whole experience had been genuinely weird. She didn’t know what to make of any of it. There had been moments… things he’d said… and yet, he might as well have been judging cows at a county fair, for all the almost clinical detachment of his manner now. Shaking off any final vestiges of the weirdly dreamy spell that had overtaken her at the sight of her own transformation, she came to a realization that planted her feet very firmly back on the ground: beneath the new hairdo and makeup, the beautiful, sexy clothing and jewelry, she was still Hermione Granger, still very much herself. It would not do to forget that.

Still lost in thought, she was startled when Elvira came up to her, pressing a large, zippered bag into her hands. 

“Enjoy these new things, my dear,” she said, smiling. “I’ve packed up a number of outfits, complete with accessories. There are clothes for work, for weekends, and for evening wear. All the cosmetics I used today are in the bag as well. Do you think you’ll remember what I did?”

Hermione laughed uneasily. “No. I’m quite sure I won’t.”

“Not to worry. I’ve Spelled everything to arrange itself on you just so. Apply according to the instructions and all will be perfect.”

“Oh, but…” Hermione found herself panicking suddenly, the weighty bag in her hand. The cost of all this stuff would be astronomical! She’d been so caught up in the process that she hadn’t thought… How in Merlin’s name would she pay for all of this? The makeover itself was one thing; Malfoy would be paying for that. But all this clothing and the jewelry and shoes, the make-up and hair products? Surely he hadn’t intended to cover all that as well? Not that _she_ should have to, she thought, suddenly irate. This was all _his_ idea. Bloody hell, he _should_ pay for it. He could certainly afford it. 

Apparently, money was no object, simply par for Malfoy's course. She ought to have known. 

“Thank you, Elvira. Magnificent work, as always,” he was saying, pressing something into the palm of the older witch’s hand. “You’ve really outdone yourself this time.” 

‘Gosh, thanks,’ Hermione thought, disgruntled for the second time that day, an old expression she'd once heard coming, unbidden and unwelcome, to mind. What was it? Something about a silk purse and a sow's ear… 

“So,” she cut in, the irritation in her voice unmistakable. “We’re done, yes? We can get back to work now?” 

Draco glanced at his watch. Half three. “Yeah.” He grinned cheerfully. “Now would be just about right, I reckon. Come on, Granger. There’s business to attend to, and I’ll wager it might just involve your weekend plans.” 

More cryptic remarks. Just Malfoy’s style. The man had serious control issues, she decided. But before she’d had a chance to ponder this further, she found herself being hurried to the fireplace. 

“Grab some Floo powder, will you, Granger?” he drawled. “You’re closer to it.” 

Really. He was just as close to it as she was. With a small, annoyed sigh, Hermione reached up and scooped a handful of the powder from the bowl on the mantel. “Goodbye, Elvira, and thanks!” she called out, and then, dashing the powder to the hearthstone, “The Daily Prophet!” A moment later, they were back at the paper, heading to her office. 

Draco seemed in rather an inexplicable hurry all of a sudden, as he moved briskly down the corridor, Hermione struggling to keep up with his long strides in her high heels. Finally, with a muttered expletive or two, she stopped, pulled the shoes off, and continued down the hall barefooted. 

Doubtless, this made an exceedingly odd picture: the stranger (for Draco had reactivated the Glamour upon reentering the premises) and a very stylish woman who was prompting double takes from everyone who spotted them. 

“Is that…?” echoed up and down the corridor as people poked their heads out of their offices to see what the buzz was all about. Amazement and outright disbelief were rife, followed by amusement at the sight of Hermione Granger, respected managing editor, running alongside a rather dishy companion, shoes in hand. 

Reaching her office at last, Hermione shut the door firmly behind them, safe at last from curious and prying eyes. 

“Oh gods,” she groaned. “I can just hear the gossip mill going a million miles an hour! This is all I need!” 

Draco had dropped into the nearest chair, slouching comfortably, his crossed feet resting irreverently on her desk. He looked positively cheerful. 

“Au contraire, Granger. A bit of notoriety involving a new man is exactly what you need.” 

She turned from hanging the blazer on the coat rack and gaped at him, forgetting for the moment that without it, she was strapless and bare shouldered. 

The sight of so much bare skin was not lost on Draco, however. His gaze rested on her slender shoulders and the creamy cleavage cresting the top of the coral silk blouse, and he smiled wolfishly. “I see you took my advice about the push-up. Well done.” 

“What? Oh!” Automatically, Hermione reached for the blazer, intending to put it back on. 

Quick as lightning, Draco was on his feet, a restraining hand on her arm. “Stop!” he told her sternly. “Sit down. Lesson number one: do not _ever_ cover yourself up when a man is admiring the view. I don’t mean some pervy old bloke drooling over you from across the pub. But if you’re with a man and he is clearly enjoying your attributes, by all means, encourage him.” 

“How, exactly? What am I supposed to do, shove my ‘attributes’ in his face? Do an impromptu striptease? Allow him to cop a feel just because he admires them?” 

Draco chuckled. “Granger, Granger, Granger,” he sighed with a look of infinite patience laced with amusement. “Your naivete is charming and almost impossible to believe. I take that back. Coming from you, I totally believe it. No, sweetheart, none of the above. You are not throwing yourself at him. He doesn’t get what he wants quite that easily. You are sinking a hook into him and slowly reeling him in. The reason you’re wearing that fetching top and bra is to offer a feast for the eyes and the promise of more later. Quite a bit later. Those tits are the after-dinner sweet, Granger, not the appetiser.” 

“Rather an outdated approach, don’t you think?” Hermione observed tartly, seating herself and crossing one slim leg over the other. “Women are decades past that sort of manipulative strategy! ‘Sinking a hook into him and reeling him in.’ Honestly! I swear, Malfoy, your thinking is absolutely antediluvian. Nobody believes that sort of rubbish anymore. It’s 2010, not 1956!” 

Draco shook his head and shrugged. “Say what you like. I know what works. And might I remind you, the bet mandates that you follow my instructions _to the letter_. No matter what you might think of the tactics.” 

Regrettably, this was true. Not for the first time, Hermione silently cursed Adolphus Cranford. This was all his fault. Instead of doing her job as she’d always done, she was stuck playing nursemaid to a wealthy, arrogant, egotistical throwback to the sexual Dark Ages. 

“Now,” he continued, taking a quick look at his watch. “It’s just past four. Sometime in the next hour, that chap from upstairs – what was his name? Keith?” 

She nodded. 

“Right. Keith. He’ll come round and ask you to dinner. You will politely decline. Make sure he knows you have other plans that you can’t break. Oh, and uh… accidentally drop something near his feet at some point.” 

"Why on earth should –” Hermione began and then stopped. “ _Oh._ I see.” 

Draco smiled lazily. “Good. You’re catching on. Now. Let’s get cracking on the article whilst we wait, shall we?” 

Now there was a really good idea, finally. She nodded, eager to get something productive done that didn’t involve makeup and clothing and the art of subterfuge. 

Close to forty minutes had passed before Hermione remembered Malfoy’s prediction. In that time, Keith hadn’t turned up after all and more than likely wouldn’t. With a happy little smile, she turned to Draco. 

The knock came just as she opened her mouth. She stiffened in her chair. Waves of triumphant glee were radiating from the chair to her left. _No. I will not look at you, Malfoy. I refuse._

A moment later, Keith Patrick’s head appeared around the door. 

“Busy, Hermione?” he began and then a surprised silence swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. “Gods, you look…” 

“Different?” she prompted, smiling and lowering her lashes just a tad, then raising her eyes to his again. _Merlin. Did I really just do that?_

“Different. Yes. Quite.” Keith seemed completely flummoxed by this time. 

She prodded a bit further. “Was there… something you wanted?” 

“Yes. Yes, there was. I mean, there is. I was wondering… are you free for dinner tonight? There’s a new Italian place not far from here that looks rather nice.” 

“Oh, really?” She glanced at Malfoy, who, as earlier, was studiously avoiding her eyes, his head down and his attention on paperwork. However, a brief flicker of a look told her to play it out a bit longer. 

“Sounds lovely. New, you say?” She smiled winningly, and almost instantly, she could see Keith beginning to relax. 

“Right, yes. Just opened last week. I’ve been meaning to give it a try. We could knock off here in a couple of hours. I’ll come fetch you at seven, all right?” 

By now, Keith was beaming. ‘Not for long,’ Hermione thought dismally. What a rotten feeling, knowing that she was just about to wipe that smile right off his handsome face. 

First, she plastered a wistful smile onto her own. “I’d love to, Keith, really I would. But I’m afraid I can’t tonight. I’ve already got plans.” 

“Oh. I see. Of course you do. I should’ve asked earlier. No problem. I understand.” Visibly crestfallen, Keith took a step back just as Hermione stood and moved toward him. 

“Another time?” she asked brightly. “It sounds divine.” 

He nodded, and it was evident that the sharp edge of disappointment had been blunted just a little bit by the small bone she’d thrown him. “Yes, of course,” he replied quickly. “Another time.” 

“Good.” She moved closer still, so that only a foot of space separated them. She could feel his eyes taking her in, devouring her. 

A momentary flick of the wrist as she reached up to pat at her hair, and then Hermione let out a very convincing gasp. 

“Oh my gosh! My earring! How stupid of me! I’ve just knocked it out of my ear!” 

Instantly, both she and Keith dropped to their knees, Hermione leaning forward and feeling around on the floor for the earring that she’d already slipped into her pocket. 

Keith was searching too, slowly moving a hand along the carpeting until inadvertently, it connected with hers. He raised his eyes, but they never quite made it up to her face, hopelessly diverted instead by the very inviting view of her chest that such close proximity had suddenly afforded him. 

“Well… never mind… I’m sure I’ll find it eventually. Thank you for helping me look, Keith,” she said, as they got to their feet at last. This time, she made sure to look deeply into his eyes for several seconds. 

Flustered, Keith grinned awkwardly. “S’okay. Glad I could help. Enjoy your evening, yeah?” 

Hermione smiled sweetly. “You too. And I meant it; I’d love to have dinner with you.” She moved a bit closer, laying a hand on his arm. “Ask me again soon.” 

He really was such a nice guy, so decent and good-looking and smart. At least she could comfort herself with the knowledge that she’d been completely sincere with that last bit. 

The door closed behind him and Draco leaned back in his chair, regarding Hermione with a cocky grin. “Need I say more? Lesson number two, Granger: keep them dangling for a bit whilst giving them just the barest glimpse of what they really want. You’ve done that now. Your bloke’s owl will be tapping on your window by tomorrow morning at the latest. I guarantee it. And this time, when you get that message, you'll accept the invitation.” 

“I will?" 

He chuckled. “Look, we don’t want to drive the guy completely round the bend. Too many no’s eventually do mean no. I reckon it’s time to begin reeling him in. Slowly, mind. And between now and then, we have work to do to get you ready.” 

“Oh come on, Malfoy!” Hermione sputtered. “I can manage a simple dinner date without your help, surely!” 

“No. You can’t. And the fact that you think you can is one of your biggest problems. I'll be over tonight at about eight. D’you like Thai food?” 

She nodded, nonplussed and momentarily speechless. 

“Good. I know of an excellent place for Thai takeaway. I’ll bring dinner, and afterwards, we’ll work on _productive_ date etiquette.” 

And that, it appeared, was that. Following this pronouncement, he’d turned back to his article and resumed writing. Pulling the wayward earring out of her skirt pocket, Hermione slipped it back on and sat down at her desk, suddenly exhausted. What a day it had been, and it wasn’t over yet. Suddenly, she was spending a lot more time with Draco Malfoy than she could ever have anticipated. Just at the moment, whether that was a good thing or a bad thing was completely up for grabs. 


	3. Chapter 3

It was probably a good thing that Hermione wasn’t a betting woman. If she had been, she’d have put money on Malfoy arriving late. In fact, he turned up early by nearly half an hour. The knock on the front door of her flat was brisk and hurried, impatient even.

Still in her dressing gown following a long, cool, much-needed shower and with her damp hair tumbling in loose ringlets around her shoulders, she hurried to the door.

“Who is it?” she demanded. 

“Guess.”

“You’re early, Malfoy! Go away! I’m not dressed!”

“Sorry, can’t oblige. I’ve got food that needs immediate attention. Damned carton’s sprung a leak.”

Hermione put her face very close to the door, dropping her voice. “You’re a wizard!” she hissed. “Fix it!”

“Can’t. Wand’s not where I can reach it at the moment. Got my hands full. Just open the bloody door, Granger! I don’t care if you’re dressed.” There was a pause. “Really.”

 _I bet you don’t._

There was no arguing with him, it seemed. Sighing, she unlocked the door and pulled it open. Draco stood on the doorstep, holding out a paper sack that was emitting steady droplets of brown sauce from one end.

He squeezed his eyes shut very tightly, and the next moment, he looked like himself again, the Glamour gone. It was really only the second time she’d seen him with the face she’d grown up knowing. Disconcerting, really, having him change back and forth, chameleon-like. She never knew which version she’d see. Hard, too, not to become seriously distracted, when she felt as if she were talking to a total stranger who just happened to possess all the mannerisms, voice inflections, and most of all, attitudes she knew so well from all those years at school.

Then he thrust the leaking bag into her hands. “Where’s the loo? I’m a bit of a mess!”

Gesturing in the direction of the bathroom and feeling like a minor whirlwind had just entered her flat, Hermione stood immobilised for a second before collecting herself and rushing the dripping food bag into the kitchen.

A few minutes later, she was busy ladling food onto plates when Draco sauntered into the room, and now she got a really good look at him, un-Glamoured. Whereas earlier in the day, he’d been dressed in very smart, business-casual clothing, now he looked downright relaxed in comfortable Muggle attire: faded jeans and a crisp, white, button-down shirt loosely tucked and with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. She couldn’t help noticing that his feet were bare.

Catching her staring, he flushed uncharacteristically and grinned. “Apologies for the informality. I wouldn’t ordinarily presume this way. But my shoes took a direct hit, and although I did a Scourgify, they’re still a bit stiff. And they still reek of peanut sauce. Hope you don’t mind.”

Hermione couldn’t help laughing at the preposterous notion of immaculate, fashion-forward Draco Malfoy having to abandon his very expensive shoes. “No, it’s okay,” she sighed. “What about me? I’m not even properly dressed!”

Now Draco’s grin turned feral. He raised an eyebrow in amusement. “I noticed. That tiny little dressing gown is quite fetching, I must say.”

 _Oh gods_. Blushing in earnest now, Hermione tugged at the two halves of the dressing gown where, unnoticed, they had fallen partway open. Quite short and made of white satin, the whole thing was held together by just a sash, which she’d belted loosely after her shower and then forgotten about. Not much was currently hidden from view, as Malfoy had clearly enjoyed reminding her.

“Back in a minute. Here, you can finish this,” she said hurriedly, thrusting the ladle into Draco’s hands and sprinting out of the kitchen.

A few minutes later, they were seated on cushions on her living room floor alongside the low cocktail table, which was adjacent to the sofa. Cartons and serving utensils littered the table, along with a very nice Chardonnay, also courtesy of Draco. Good taste, she noted, and no concerns about cost. No surprises there, on either count.

They ate in companionable silence for a time, both relishing the excellent food he had brought. Eventually, Hermione put down her fork and, taking a sip of her wine, regarded her dinner companion/tutor quizzically.

“You never did tell me,” she began, “why you wrote the book in the first place. Care to explain?”

“Not really,” he replied abruptly, avoiding Hermione’s gaze. There was another moment or two of silence and then he stopped eating and looked directly at her.

“Sorry. That was unfair. I owe you the courtesy of a civil answer, at the very least.”

_Well, well. Will wonders never cease?_

“Thanks,” she said, resisting the impulse to actually verbalise that thought and simply nodding. “Go on.”

“In part, it was a bet. A dare, really, from Blaise. You remember Blaise, don’t you?”

She nodded again. “Of course.”

“Right. Well… Blaise dared me to actually write down and publish all the theories I’d been spouting the last several years.”

“Theories?”

He drained his glass and poured himself a second one. “Regarding male-female relations, how it all works, how the game is played, what men want from women and vice versa.”

Now Hermione could no longer resist a sharp retort. “Oh, and what made you such an expert, Malfoy? Your failed marriage?”

That last bit had slipped out unplanned. But it was true, and everyone knew about it – his celebrated wedding to Astoria Greengrass seven years earlier, the ongoing gossip about their sometimes very public and explosive flare-ups, the rumoured infidelities on both sides, the birth of their son Scorpius, and shortly afterward, their equally public and very acrimonious split after only four years of marriage. 

The three years since had kept Draco Malfoy very much in the public eye, as he’d made it a practice to be seen with the most beautiful, accomplished, or simply wealthy and powerful women in Pureblood society. Common knowledge was that in virtually every case, he’d been the one to end things and walk away. Most observers chalked it up to a reluctance to commit. That explanation seemed to make the most sense, though the reputation he had made for himself as a result was hardly flattering.

Draco had not expected such a pointed question from her, and his head snapped up; now he stared at her with a mixture of embarrassment, annoyance, and admiration that she’d had the guts even to ask such a question so baldly.

Her chin up, Hermione didn’t flinch under the scrutiny of his stare. She held his gaze and waited.

“In point of fact, Granger, yes – it was precisely my failed marriage. Being married to Astoria was an education, believe me. And then afterwards... well... let's just say that I learned, and not only from her, what it meant to be valued for my money and my position in society rather than my worth as a man. I learned to expect lies and half-truths. I learned that women have their own ways of getting and keeping power in a relationship; they are not the same as men’s ways, but they are just as effective. I learned that even when wealth and status are powerful draws for a woman, they don’t guarantee fidelity.”

“Astoria cheated on you?” Hermione asked quietly. She hadn’t known that for certain. Even with the rumours, it was something of a shock to hear it confirmed by Malfoy himself.

He nodded grimly, his mouth a tight, tense line. “More than once.”

She was really pushing things now, Hermione realised, but she couldn’t help herself. “What about you?”

Draco’s mouth twisted into a bitter half-smile. “You mean you don’t already know?”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to be embarrassed. “Well, I suppose I’ve heard things… but I don’t know if they’re true. Working at the Prophet, one hears all sorts of stuff…”

“The stuff that winds up in the gossip columns. Yes. I know.” He paused for a sip of wine and sighed. “To answer your question, I was completely faithful to Astoria until I discovered that she had a lover and that he wasn’t the first. After that, all bets were off.”

Hermione leaned forward, her chin on her drawn-up knees. “So… when…?”

“She was cheating within the first year of our marriage. Eventually, I found irrefutable proof of it. I even believe she cheated whilst she was pregnant with our son, repugnant as it is to imagine she’d do something so low. I’ll never forgive her.”

“And since your divorce? Your reputation is really a bit sketchy, you know. Playboy and heartbreaker. Surely you're aware of that.”

Draco nodded. What she’d said was hardly news to him. “Surely _you’ve_ realised by now that I have very carefully cultivated that reputation. Any woman who gets involved with me knows from the off not to expect anything more than fun and games, until I grow bored. And then she’s history.”

That stopped Hermione in her tracks, and she fell silent for a moment. “I’m so sorry,” she said at last. “For both you and your son. How old is he now?”

“Scorpius is four. When my marriage broke up, we moved back to the Manor because my parents were willing and eager to help any way they could, especially after what my ex-wife had done. Reckon they felt fairly guilty, because they had really pushed the marriage. I’d been far less enthusiastic. Anyway, I have an excellent nanny for him, and my parents are there most of the time as well.” Draco smiled, but it was bleak and mechanical. “Any further questions?”

In truth, she had none. It was plain to see how Malfoy could have wound up with the notions he now held about women and how they related to men. Such an ordeal would have left anyone scarred, cynical, mistrustful, and willing to assume the worst about the opposite sex and what women were after. It was easy to understand how someone who’d been through what Malfoy had experienced would reduce male-female relationships to bare-bones basics: men have simple needs and want gratification. Women have other needs and want marriage. The trade-off is basic and straightforward, hardly more than a business arrangement: satisfy a man’s essential needs and a woman will secure all the material and status-related things she desires. He'd been used and betrayed, and experience had been a painful but powerful teacher. The way he saw it now, there was nothing else to look for from a woman, nothing else she could offer a man.

Of course, such notions were absurdly archaic and just as untrue now as they ever were. Hermione decided then and there, with renewed determination, that she would prove him wrong, and not just because of their bet. The good name of womankind lay in the balance. She knew how much _she_ had to offer the right man – and just maybe, Keith Patrick was that man – and if she won the bet, it might go a long way towards changing Malfoy’s mind about women. Surely she was the rule and not the exception. 

Damn it, she _would_ prove him wrong.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Later  
  
  
“Right. The two of you are out to dinner in a really posh place. He tells a joke or expresses a political point of view that you find unenlightened or actually offensive. What do you do?” The meal done and on his third glass of Chardonnay, Draco sat back in one of the overstuffed armchairs and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”

“Well,” Hermione started, carefully considering her answer, “I suppose I’d explain very diplomatically why it’s misguided or not at all funny, so he understands for the future that there’s a better, more intelligent way of thinking about whatever it was.”

Dead silence for a moment. “A better, more intelligent way of thinking,” he repeated slowly. “So… in other words, your purpose, your _duty_ as it were, is to teach, to raise up, to broaden a man’s outlook, take him out of the Dark Ages, yeah?” He let out a derisive snort. “Not bloody likely, Granger. You do that and you’ll find that this posh dinner will be your last with this bloke. No man wants to be corrected – and worse, instructed – when he’s (a) trying to impress a woman, (b) in his cups, or (c) quite certain he’s right. I would venture to guess that in a circumstance like that, all three would apply.”

“But I can’t just sit there and let him say stupid things that I know are wrong, can I?” Hermione stared at him, incredulous. “That would be an affront to my own intelligence! Am I supposed to play dumb?”

“In essence, yes. Not all the time, of course. No man worth his salt is looking for a stupid woman. That would just be dead boring. We do like a bit of intellectual challenge now and then – but only to a point. It’s not so much that he wouldn’t want to learn your point of view; it’s that he wouldn’t want to be _publicly corrected_. You see the difference? It’s a matter of choosing your battles and the proper timing. In other words, Granger, you have to know when to shut up. Think you can manage that, love?”

That last question was accompanied by clearly sceptical laughter. 

“Of course I _can_ , Malfoy. I am capable of putting on an act if I need to. I can even laugh at a stupid joke if I must. What else?”

“Okay. How will you behave generally when you’re with him? Do you envision yourself taking charge at times, for instance with the conversation or choosing where you’ll go, or would you allow him to take the lead?”

Hermione thought for a moment. “Well, I’d like to think that the relationship would allow for both of us to assert ourselves in turn, that there would be an equal give and take. Wouldn’t that be best?”

Draco sighed. This was going to be as much of a challenge as he had anticipated, if not more. Granger was living up to his most extreme-case scenarios of resistance, the ones he’d imagined when first envisioning the bet. He’d have to spell things out every step of the way and not take even the smallest thing for granted. Getting her to act the malleable, docile beauty would be tough, but the rewards would be totally worth the struggle. He’d finally be on his way to making a life for himself and Scorpius that _he’d_ had a direct hand in fashioning, beyond the wealth he’d inherited.

“In your rosy, perfect little world, maybe. Not in the real world of men and women. Neither of the sexes is built that way, not really. Everyone wants to dominate. However, it’s a lot more fruitful in the end for everybody if the woman is smart and lets her man be the dominant partner. It’s all about ego, Granger. Men have huge egos that need propping up. It’s a fact. We need to be adored and spoilt and made to feel invincible. We need to feel as if we’re the centre of the universe. That simply means that a woman ultimately needs to use her intellect to –”

“Become devious and manipulative. That’s what you’re really saying, isn’t it. That women have to put on a façade, fake our emotions, that we have to exploit a man in order to get what we want in life. It’s thoroughly dishonest!” She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward a bit. “Isn’t that precisely the sort of rotten behaviour you despised in Astoria?”

“Touché, Granger. The difference was, she never made me feel invincible or special or truly valued. She went through the motions, yes, but it was all bullshit. There was nothing behind all the fawning, no genuine feelings of affection or, dare I say it, love. None at all. It wasn't even that she disliked me. I meant _nothing_ to her. She was _utterly indifferent_." He paused, shadows of pain, anger, and bitterness darkening his eyes as he remembered. Then, with visible effort, he shook the toxic memories off. "Look, I’m not proposing that women lie through their teeth in order to snag a bloke. I’m merely suggesting that they defer to their men enough that their mates feel important, valued, strong. Suppress your own ego and build up your man’s. In turn, he’ll treat you like gold.”

Well. That was a hell of a lot to digest, enough that Hermione fell silent for a time, mulling all of it over. They sat there in the quiet, both of them nursing a final glass of wine; gradually, drowsiness began asserting itself, overshadowing any truly coherent consideration of their conversation.

The comfortable silence was abruptly broken by a tapping sound. For a minute, Hermione was confused, and then a clear thought broke through the mental haze. Jumping up from her chair, she hurried to the kitchen window, where a small owl was pecking at the glass.

She returned to the sitting room, a message in hand. “You were right!” she marveled. “It’s from Keith. He’s asked me out for brunch tomorrow. I can’t believe it – your prediction was absolutely spot-on! How ever did you know?”

Draco’s answering grin was insufferably smug. He shrugged gracefully and laughed. “Yours is not to question, remember? Just be sure to follow my instructions tomorrow. I’ll want a full report afterwards. Send me an owl when you get back home and I’ll come over. Agreed?”

Hermione nodded, amazement still crowding out any other thoughts or feelings. “Yes, all right. I will.”

“Right then. Best be off. It’s getting late, and we both need our beauty sleep. Goodnight, Granger.” He paused, the corners of his mouth curling in a tiny, wry smile. “Hermione.”  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
By one pm the following day, Hermione was back at home, kicking off another pair of painfully high stilettos and flopping down on the sofa. She wiggled her toes to try and get the circulation back in her feet, arching and flexing them to alleviate the aches and pains the shoes had left in their wake.

Half an hour later, the realisation hit that she had forgotten to contact Malfoy. Dragging herself off the sofa with a small groan, she dispatched her owl with a hastily penned message. Forty-five minutes after that, there was a knock on the door.

Plucking her wand off the cocktail table, she waved it in the direction of the door, muttering, “ _Alohomora!_ ”

Seconds later, Draco was standing in the centre of the sitting room. As before, he was clad casually in jeans and a soft, cotton shirt. He cocked his head to one side, folding his arms across his chest.

“So? How did it go, then?”

“Well, first off, you’re to blame for crippling me permanently,” Hermione grumbled. “I wore a pair of the new shoes and I will be surprised if I’m able to walk normally ever again!”

Rolling his eyes, Draco sighed and took a seat. “Let’s not exaggerate, shall we? I’m sure your feet are fine. Women wear high heels every day of the week and nobody’s become crippled yet.”

“That you know of!”

“Yes, yes, okay.” He dismissed the subject with an impatient wave of the hand. “Now tell me about the date. What happened?”

Hermione heaved a deep sigh. “Well, we met at this little place near the Prophet offices. They have wonderful coffees and teas and lovely mixed drinks.”

“You wore one of the new outfits, I assume.”

She nodded. “Yes, and I wore my hair up as well, the way Elvira did it the other day.”

“The push-up bra too?”

“I’ll ignore that question. Anyway, I looked really good.”

“If you do say so yourself.”

“Shut up, Malfoy. I thought you wanted to hear about my date! _Anyway,_ it was perfectly disgusting. Me, I mean. I was. At times, I wanted to stuff my fist into my mouth just to shut myself up. I sounded like such a brainless cow, spouting all that rubbish!”

Draco chuckled, drawing his fingertips together and pressing them to his lips. “Sounds promising. Go on. Specifics, please.”  
  
  
_That morning_  
  
_Leaning in, Keith smiled, his handsome face lighting up with pleasure. “You look stunning, Hermione. I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.”_

_“Thank you, Keith. I’m so pleased you approve. Let’s have a toast, shall we?” She raised her glass, fizzy with the champagne of her Mimosa, and clinked it against the rim of his. “To… getting to know each other better.”_

_“Excellent proposal. I’m all for that.” Keith grinned and took a generous gulp of his own drink. “Tell me about yourself, Hermione. Beyond what’s public knowledge, I mean.”_

_She thought for a second and then laughed coquettishly. “Oh, me! I’m not all that fascinating beyond the public knowledge. I’d really much rather hear about_ you.”  
  
  
“And I did. For the better part of two hours, in fact. I laughed in all the right places and kept the focus on him the whole time. He was quite charming, really. Brought me flowers – see, they’re right over there in the vase.” Hermione tipped her head in the direction of the small table next to the door, where there was a vase filled with pink carnations. “I hate carnations. They’re so boring. Well, he wasn’t to know, of course. I told him they were gorgeous. I positively gushed.”

Draco smiled serenely. “And was he sufficiently pleased?”

“Oh yes. I made his day, I think. Anyway, he told me all about himself, his entire life story.” She smiled then, thinking back. “You know, he really is such a gentleman and so refined. Held my chair, opened doors for me, offered me his arm when we walked in the park afterwards…”

Draco cocked an amused eyebrow. “And… you enjoyed all that? You surprise me, Granger.”

“Oh, well, I wasn’t expecting any of it, of course, and I am perfectly capable of opening doors and seating myself without help. But it was actually rather refreshing, having a man take such pains to be gallant. I’m not used to it, so I suppose the novelty factor was a big part of it. None of the other men I’ve gone out with ever thought to do any of that.”

“Anything else?”

“Well, after brunch, as I said, we took a walk. After that, he brought me home.”

“Did he –”

She shook her head. “He wanted to, I could tell. He even took a step closer and I could see what was coming. But I stepped back and nipped that in the bud.”

“How?”

“I offered him my hand.” She giggled a little bit, remembering.

“Hah. Excellent. There’s no rush. Keep him waiting a bit longer. I guarantee he’s already dreaming about you and everything he wants to do to you.”

“You make it sound so dirty!” she protested, but she couldn’t help laughing as well.

“Oh, believe me, Granger, it is. That gentleman of yours is no gentleman when you get past the refined exterior. He’s just as lust-driven and filthy-minded as the rest of the male population, those of us who are still breathing, anyway. It’s up to you to control the pacing so that you don’t give it away too soon. He’ll respect that, and at the same time, it’ll have the effect of making him even more ardent and eager. I would say you handled this first date brilliantly. Congratulations!”

The compliment was unexpected, and Hermione found herself blushing, though why, she wasn’t exactly sure. To cover her embarrassment, she flexed her toes once again and reached down to rub her sore feet. “Gosh,” she murmured, “my feet really are killing me!”

To her surprise, Draco stood and moved to the sofa, sitting down at the other end and taking her feet into his lap. “Let me,” he told her briskly. “I’m actually rather good at foot rubs, so I’ve been told.”

“By the hordes of satisfied women you’ve dated the past three years, you mean?” she asked pointedly. 

“Exactly,” he chuckled. “If you’ve got a favourite lotion, it’ll be even better.” He glanced up at her and waited.

“In the loo. Top shelf of the medicine cabinet.” Was Draco Malfoy really about to give her a foot rub? This was surreal. Sighing, she sank back into the sofa cushions and closed her eyes, feeling herself drifting perilously close to sleep.

Before long, he was back, and not only with the bottle of lotion. In one hand, he held a pair of wine glasses. In the other, he had a bottle of wine he’d found in the kitchen. The lotion bottle was shoved into a back pocket of his jeans. When he returned, he found Hermione breathing gently, nearly out. Pouring wine for both of them, he set the glasses down on the cocktail table and opened the bottle of lotion, which was coconut scented and very creamy. At the first touch of cool lotion on warm skin, her eyes opened and she spotted the glass of wine he’d set out for her. 

Gratefully, she took a sip and relaxed into the massage that he had begun on her right foot, the more painful of the two. Kneading, making ever-widening circles in her arch with the flats of his thumbs, using the perfect degree of acupressure on the sore heel, Draco worked steadily, applying dabs of lotion to keep her skin supple and smooth and make the manipulation of the muscles more fluid and effective. His hands were strong and sure, yet his touch was gentle. Eventually, he finished with her right foot, took a swig of his wine, and started on the left.

Heaven. That’s what it was, pure and simple. However he’d learnt it, Malfoy was incredibly skilled. Somehow he knew just how to make the massage pleasurable beyond all expectations. She could only just imagine the near-trances he must have put his girlfriends into with such technique. As sensual as such tactile contact really was, he seemed curiously removed from that element of it, the way a professional masseuse would be, or so it appeared. And yet, at the same time, he was clearly touching her feet with a sort of reverence and an intimacy – a sense of pleasure – that were both startling and unexpected. The sight of his hands on her, coupled with the sensations those hands were producing, sent delicious shivers down her spine.

At last, when she was feeling almost comatose, he set her feet gently on the sofa and stood.

“Must go. I promised Scorpius we’d do something this afternoon, and I’m already a bit late getting home. See you tomorrow at the office, yeah?”

Groggily, Hermione raised her head and waved. “Yes. See you. And thank you for...”

Draco grinned briefly, dismissing her thanks. “S’okay. Bring me a large hazelnut latte tomorrow morning from that place you went to today and we’ll be even.”

Raising herself up on one elbow, she gave him a wry smile. “I believe I can manage that. How do you take it?”

He was already halfway out the door when the answer came floating back to her.

“Extra strong dark roast, splash of cream, two sugars.”  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
30 August  
Sunday afternoon  
  
  


The dates with Keith began to multiply after that. By the first week of August, Hermione had already been out with him six times: to a Quidditch match, dinner (twice), a concert, and to the cinema (twice – Muggle films were a guilty pleasure for him, and he took full advantage of picking Hermione’s brain about the actors, special effects, etc.). Things continued apace from that point, so that time spent with Keith – weekday lunches, after-work dinners, and weekend dates – was now very much a part of Hermione’s life.

Before and after each date, Draco was on hand for last-minute coaching. On the weekends, breakfast made by Hermione became a part of the pre-date prep session. A good bottle of wine and an extended foot rub from Draco became a relaxing and enjoyable part of the post-date review. Without even noticing it happening, Hermione began looking forward to those hours spent together. It was often rather fun, too, what with the sharply witty, challenging conversations she knew she could count on from Draco and the easy, unpressured tone set early on and continued. So this was what it was like to have a male friend who was truly that, with no hidden agendas. 

On this day, Draco was expected back at Hermione’s flat at about four. She’d come in from a date with Keith worn out from the lengthy trek through Hyde Park they’d embarked upon after lunch. A foot rub was sounding awfully good just then, she thought, settling down on the sofa with a book to wait for Draco.

The time for him to arrive came and went, and Hermione began to wonder what might have happened. By five, the first traces of uneasiness began percolating in the back of her thoughts. At half past five, her uneasiness grew, and by six, she was seriously concerned. Jumping up from the sofa, she resolved to send a message by owl. 

Just as she was about to attach the parchment to her owl’s leg, there was a knock at the door. Relieved but also annoyed that he’d been so late and put her through two hours of worry, she pulled the door open, on the verge of letting him have a piece of her mind. What she saw silenced her immediately.

Draco stood there, holding a beautiful little boy by the hand. The child had his father’s fair hair and very pale complexion, but his eyes were a deep, liquid brown, framed by long, dark eyelashes.

“Apologies for the lateness.” He dropped his voice to a near whisper. “It was his mother’s weekend with him, not that she really cares about seeing him except that she can use him to get at me. Anyway, she wouldn’t let me leave without first rattling off a list of her latest demands. As a result, I didn’t have time to take him home first. I hope you don’t mind. That woman is a class-A b–”

“Draco, no,” Hermione interrupted quickly, mouthing the words. “Not now.” Crouching down so that she was at the little boy’s level, she smiled and held out her hand. “Hello there. My name is Hermione. What’s yours?”

“Scorpius Alexander Malfoy. How do you do?” he replied solemnly, shaking her proffered hand. 

Oh goodness. He was so terribly serious, and Hermione’s heart went out to him; she found herself desperately wanting to make him smile. 

She beckoned to the two of them. “Come in.” This would certainly be a different experience than the usual post-date routine they’d established. “Scorpius. What a handsome name.”

“Thank you,” the child answered. 

“Would you like a glass of milk and some biscuits? I’ve got some really lovely chocolate ones I think you’d like,” she told him, taking him by the hand. “Or… well... it _is_ after six." She considered for a moment. "Do the two of you like spaghetti?”

Draco opened his mouth to demur, but his son nipped in ahead of him, nodding enthusiastically. “We love spaghetti! Can we have some, please?”

Laughing quietly, Draco nodded his assent. “Thanks, Granger. I imagine he must be famished by now. He usually has his supper at five.”

“It’s settled, then.” Hermione smiled and took the little boy’s hand. “We’ll just save those chocolate biscuits for afters.”

Over his head, she caught Draco’s eye. He flashed her a quick grin and followed them into the kitchen, where he sat with his son at the table while Hermione prepared a simple but satisfying meal. Before long, it was ready, steaming and fragrant with a rich red sauce and dashes of parmesan cheese, or in Scorpius’ case, a small, snowy mountain of it. A glass of milk for him and wine for the grownups completed the meal.

“Did you have a nice time with your mummy?” Hermione asked conversationally, watching the little boy eagerly attack his food. Her question received a nod, but the food in front of him was of far greater interest than conversation. In fairly short order, he’d finished it. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “More?”

Scorpius nodded enthusiastically.

“If it’s all right with your daddy, of course,” she added carefully. “I wouldn’t want to give you a tummy ache.”

Draco laughed out loud then. “No worries. You can’t overfeed this kid. Despite appearances to the contrary, he’s a bottomless pit. Reckon he burns it off with all the running about he does every day. It’s non-stop.” He leaned over to ruffle his son’s soft hair. “Isn’t that right, Monster?”

The boy nodded, grinning happily, his mouth too full to answer. Sauce adorned the tip of his nose and a fair-sized blotch of it was on his chin as well. 

Draco smiled fondly and leaned back in the chair, folding his arms. “Well, as he is otherwise occupied and unable to form proper sentences at the moment, I’ll direct a question to you, Granger: how did it go today?”

“Very well, actually. Keith continues to be intrigued, which is a good thing.” _Except it means I’m losing the bet._ “We had lunch and then spent some time in Hyde Park, which was really nice. We hired a boat, one of those pedal things, and then we had a walk through the Rose Garden, and then, he surprised me. He’d hired a horse-drawn carriage for us, which then took us through the park and all over London.”

“Enjoyed all that, did you?”

Sighing heavily, she shrugged. “Yes and no. Lunch and boating and the rose garden were lovely. I _detested_ the horse-drawn carriage ride. Those beautiful horses, having to drag huge, heavy carriages, most of them full of overweight tourists, all over London! So much traffic and noise, petrol fumes… Not to mention the very real dangers for a horse in all that traffic. It’s just wrong!”

Draco sat up a bit straighter. Here was a test, if ever there was one. “Did you say anything?”

Hermione shook her head sadly. “I didn’t. I came close, believe me, but in the end, I just kept it to myself. That was really hard, especially watching those poor horses and how hard they were working! I felt like such a hypocrite! And there was Keith, smiling away, absolutely positive that he was giving me the ultimate in romantic experiences.” 

“And how are things between the two of you now?”

“I have the feeling he wants to take things to the next level. He’s not wasting any time.”

A shadow flickered briefly in Draco’s eyes. 

“No, I gathered as much.” He summoned a congratulatory smile. “Well, this is what you wanted, yeah? This is your perfect man. Anything big planned?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Hermione replied, “he wants to take me to the Lake District in a couple of weeks. He’s got a house up there, an 18th-century cottage. Apparently, he inherited it from his parents. It’s supposed to be quite beautiful from what he says.”

“And… you’re still taking other things slowly, yes?” 

She nodded. “Very. I suspect it’s making him a bit crazy.”

Suddenly, Draco looked strangely relieved. Turning quickly to Scorpius to hide it from Hermione, he gave his son an affectionate poke. “Had enough, Wizzer?”

Hermione couldn’t help laughing. “Wizzer?”

“He couldn’t say ‘wizard’ when he was a baby; it came out ‘wizzer.’ The name stuck.” Draco’s smile when he looked at his son was full of the purest love. It was an expression Hermione had never seen before on his face, and it was utterly transformative, lighting his grey eyes from within and softening his features. He looked incredibly handsome – nothing new there – but now it was in a whole new and very appealing way: softer, suddenly, and vulnerable somehow.

Feeling her gaze, Draco looked up and his eyes met hers, lingering there. And once again – this was happening more and more of late – she felt a faint stirring of uneasiness. Always, she’d chalked it up to uncertainty about Keith, mixed with creeping feelings of guilt about the not entirely honest version of herself to which he was becoming increasingly attached. Now, it felt like something more than mere guilt or hesitancy. There was something else there too, though she couldn’t name it. 

“Right, well…” he began eventually, breaking the silence. “I’ve got to get this young man home. It'll be bedtime soon and he needs a bath.”

“Story time too, Daddy, don’t forget!” the youngster piped up, pulling insistently at his father’s sleeve. “The dragon one!”

“I haven’t forgotten, no worries! The dragon one it is.” Draco grinned, first at his son and then over the boy’s head at Hermione. “We’ve only read that one about a hundred times. He knows it by heart.”

“Oh, well, you'd best be off, then,” she said gravely, her mouth twitching. “It won’t do to keep dragons waiting.”

She walked them to the door, Draco hefting his son up into his arms, and then raised her hand in a small wave. Scorpius waved back happily, and then he leaned over, throwing his arms around Hermione’s neck.

“Bye bye, Hermione,” he murmured. “Thank you for supper. It was really good.”

“Oh, you’re very welcome, darling,” she said, her heart lodging in her throat suddenly. It was easy to see how one could fall head over heels in love with one’s child. This boy was utterly beguiling; Draco was a very lucky man, and it was evident that he knew it. And Astoria? Indifferent to her own child? Incomprehensible. 

“See you in the morning, Granger,” Draco was saying, drawing Hermione back to the here and now. “And… thanks.”

It was a word she’d never heard from him in their years at school. However, it had begun to make more frequent appearances in their conversations of late. A simple enough word, but potentially evocative of so much. 

Things with Keith were going exactly as she’d originally hoped they would, despite the rather annoying fact that Draco’s theories and strategies seemed to be the reason. Yet nothing was actually turning out as she’d anticipated, her own emotions in particular. Hermione sighed, closing the door behind them. Why was she feeling so confused?


	4. Chapter 4

11 September  
Saturday morning  
  
  
Her bed littered with clothing in disarray, Hermione was on the verge of panic. Keith would be there in an hour to collect her, and she hadn’t yet finished packing for their weekend away. Before her makeover, this would have been far simpler. She’d have put her favourite outfits, neatly folded, into the suitcase without any great dilemmas over which was better. Less was definitely more in terms of choosing without headaches and uncertainty. More was definitely far too much.

As she moved quickly about her bedroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the chest of drawers. For a moment, she almost didn’t recognise herself as the glamorous, perfectly made up young woman she had morphed into, thanks to Draco and Elvira Middleton. Even now, every once in a while, it was a surprise to see that face looking back at her and realise that she was still there beneath all that stylish perfection.

Finally, she was all packed and ready to go. Suddenly, she remembered something she’d meant to do. Pulling out her wand, she positioned herself in front of the mirror next to the front door. With a quick wave, she moved the wand in a circular motion around her head and then down the length of her face.

_"Venusta!"_

It was the spell Elvira had taught her in order to reinforce the changes from the makeover and keep them fresh. Failure to use the spell every few days would result in the changes – in Hermione’s case, to her hair and skin tone – fading rapidly.

Inspecting her reflection closely, Hermione nodded, satisfied. She was good through the weekend now. Just then, there was a knock on the door.

‘Must be Keith. He’s early!’ she thought, and pulled the door open.

In fact, it was Draco.

“Malfoy! What are you doing here?” She took a step back in surprise.

He gave a small, noncommittal shrug. “Why should today be different to our usual routine? You’re about to go off with your bloke for the whole weekend. I’d say that demands at least a brief conversation beforehand, to make sure you’re ready.” Moving closer, he gave her a thorough once-over. “ _Are_ you ready?”

“I think so,” she replied, less certain now than she’d been five minutes earlier. 

Her vaguely dubious tone was a tiny red flag, and Draco narrowed his eyes, regarding her more closely. “Not sure?” he prodded. They both knew that his question was really a weightier one. He had to know.

This question was the last thing she wanted to hear. In fact, truth be told, she wasn’t sure at all. But things were moving forward in a relationship she had largely engineered herself, and to back out now seemed illogical, and ultimately, counter-productive. After all, wasn’t this what she wanted? A man just like Keith – handsome, intelligent, articulate, well mannered and considerate– didn’t come along every day. And she knew that he was hers for the having. What sort of fool would throw away someone like that for no good reason?

“No, no, I’m sure,” she said quickly. “It’s fine. Truly.” Stretching, she moved her head to one side and then to the other, in an effort to ease a sudden crick spasming in her neck.

“Hmm. You don’t want to go away with a pain in the neck, do you?” Draco raised an eyebrow and then smirked. “Though maybe you will do in any case.”

“Not funny!” Hermione protested. “Keith is a lovely man! I’m very happy with him. Really. It’s just that I did something to my neck this morning, I think when I was pulling my suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe.”

“Right,” he sighed. “Sit down. On the sofa. And turn to the side.” 

“Malfoy, I don’t think a foot rub is going to cure this.”

He paused, rolling his eyes and expelling a long, patient breath. “That has to be one of the more ridiculous things you’ve ever said, Granger. I have no intention of giving you a foot rub. I happen to be rather brilliant at shoulder and neck massages as well.”

Hermione Granger was no fool, and she wasn’t about to look a gift horse like that in the mouth. Immediately, she sat, waiting as he positioned himself behind her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. 

“Where does it hurt?” came his voice from just behind her ear. 

“Here, and here,” she told him, touching the tender spots. “And shooting down from my neck to my right shoulder.” _Wait. Don’t be stupid._ “Actually, no, both shoulders.”

She could feel him smile against her hair at that, and then his hands began to work their magic. 

If she'd thought he was gifted at foot massages, the reality of his shoulder massage technique put this new experience on a whole other level. Sliding his fingertips up the sides of her neck into her hairline, he began with a massage of her scalp. All along the nape of her neck and up into her hair, his fingers moved in rhythmic circles, and she could feel the tension slipping away. And then his hands moved systematically down her neck, kneading the sore muscles, isolating the knots of tension and concentrating on them, until he reached her shoulders.

“Where did you learn to do this?” she breathed, her eyes closed and her body putty in his hands. 

“I’m naturally gifted, what more can I say?” was his cocky reply. “I just do what I think would feel good to me. Believe me, I know what it is to have muscles seize up with tension, especially in the neck and shoulders. When my marriage went on the rocks, I could hardly turn my head for the pain.”

By now, his hands were exploring the knotted muscles in her shoulders, moving rhythmically as they worked their way outward from the base of her neck, dipping into the wells of her collarbones and slipping around to cup the tips of her shoulders. It felt as if his fingertips were igniting small trails of fire on her skin as they moved. It all felt so incredibly good. As his hands worked their will on her body, her skin tingled. What would it be like if his hands dipped down a bit lower and then a bit lower still? As this thought took firm hold, a hot blush started and she could feel her nipples pebbling. Thank the gods her bra – one of those push-ups that Malfoy was always encouraging her to wear – was hiding the evidence of the very embarrassing and inconvenient betrayal of her body. But oh… the thought of those talented hands on her breasts… and not only his hands… 

Utterly relaxed by this time, she’d let her head drop back so that now it rested against Draco’s chest. Softly, like the brush of a bird’s wing, his fingers moved back up the column of her slender neck, lingering there for a moment.

Still, she lay against him, unmoving, feeling quite boneless and as if she could happily drift off into oblivion. 

Gathering her hair, he lifted it carefully, holding it up and away from her neck once again and nudging her gently forward. “Granger. _Hermione_ ,” he whispered and then ducked his head so that she could feel his breath stirring the fine tendrils curling at the nape of her neck. 

Slowly, she opened her eyes, turning her head to look back at him. His eyes were dark, hooded, his gaze seemingly fixed on those soft, errant curls.

“Oh… oh gods…” she murmured, and then words became superfluous. There was only the kiss, and how really good and right it felt, and how very long he had wanted to do it, and how long she had wanted him to do it.

At long last, they pulled away from each other, breathless. Hermione reached for him, her eyes wide and dark with confusion.

“What just happened, Malfoy? Tell me! Should I not go with Keith? Please, I have to know.”

Keith would be there any minute. But suddenly, the earth had shifted on its axis and everything familiar and comfortable had tumbled out of place.

A knock sounded at the door and Draco turned away, unable to meet her gaze. “No, go with him. It’s what you want. _He’s_ what you want, really. This was a mistake. It should never have happened.”

His words were like a sucker punch to the gut, and Hermione stared, speechless. In the next moment, Draco had opened the door, admitting Keith with a rushed greeting, and left. 

Surprised, Keith laughed briefly and stooped to pick up Hermione’s suitcase. “Ready, darling? Wait till you see all the wonderful things I’ve got planned for us. You’re going to love it!”

Hermione gave him a faint, mechanical smile and nodded, utterly numb. She’d go. Perhaps Malfoy had been right. After all, this was the man she’d been pursuing single-mindedly for the last two months. One kiss from somebody else shouldn’t change everything, should it? And anyway, it would be wrong to ditch Keith at the very last minute, after all the effort he’d put into planning the weekend.

She’d go. It would be fine.  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Except, of course, that it wasn’t. Not even remotely. Keith had indeed planned out every minute of the two days they would have in the Lake District: long walks and a bike ride exploring the magnificent countryside, romantic dinners by the fireside in the old stone cottage, and visits to the homes of Wordsworth and Coleridge would fill the two days and be the perfect backdrop for the very serious conversation he had in mind.

Arriving by Apparation in the front room of the cottage, they’d spent the afternoon walking and not saying too much. He’d sensed that Hermione was in a reflective mood and not ready to do more than just soak in the beauty and utter peace of the scenery all around them, so he’d left her to her own thoughts.

Dinner had been a masterstroke. Keith had arranged for the entire meal to be prepared in advance by house-elves who lived full-time on the airy top floor of the cottage. By the time they returned from their outing, a beautiful table had been laid, candles lit, and a lovely, bright fire was burning in the old, stone hearth. 

After the meal, Keith sat on the sofa facing the fire, patting the cushions next to him invitingly. Hermione trailed over, sitting down and immediately finding herself enfolded in Keith’s comfortable embrace. 

Slinging an arm around her shoulders, he drew her close and sighed contentedly. “Marvelous, isn’t it? All this, I mean. I love this place. I basically grew up here, you know. We came every summer and on many of our family holidays. It was the perfect place for a young boy to enjoy all the small pleasures kids often miss out on nowadays.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “It’s wonderful. I can see why you love it so much.”

“I hope to bring my own children here someday, so they can experience it for themselves. What would you think about that?”

“Me?” Hermione laughed uneasily. “Why would my opinion matter?”

Keith chuckled. “Don’t be so modest, Hermione. Surely you can work out the answer to that.”

Wriggling out from under his arm, she moved a few inches away. Things were starting to feel distinctly claustrophobic suddenly. Time for a change of subject. “What a perfectly lovely afternoon we had today! Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“It was my pleasure. You know…” Sliding closer to her, he put that same arm around her shoulders once again. “There’s nothing like a good fire on a chilly September evening in the country, don’t you agree? Perfect for getting cosy. What about a glass of something? Can I tempt you?”

Perfect. Excellent idea. Anything. “Yes, please,” Hermione piped up, relieved. 

Keith left the room briefly to pour two glasses of a rich, red Malbec and returned, handing her one and settling his arm firmly about her shoulders for the third time. After a good swallow, he turned to her and began nuzzling her neck. Before too long, the nuzzling became something more, and buttons were being undone at a rapid clip. He was in the process of sliding down one of her bra straps when her hand shot out and stopped him cold.

“Wait. I can’t. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

Stunned into momentary silence, he fell back against the sofa cushions and stared as she covered her face with her hands. Finally, he found his voice. 

“What’s wrong, Hermione? Is it something I’ve done? Have I offended you in some way?”

She shook her head, her face still obscured and her voice muffled; then she found the courage to look at him. “No, no! Of course not. You’ve been perfect. You _are_ perfect. It’s not you. It’s me.”

Now Keith was thoroughly mystified. “What in Merlin’s name are you on about? What do you mean, it’s you? You’re wonderful. You’re my ideal woman. I love you!”

Hermione took a deep breath and steeled herself. It had to be done. No more lies or half-truths. 

“Why, exactly? What makes me ideal, as you put it? Why do you love me?”

“You’re drop-dead gorgeous, for one thing. And you’re brilliant. But what I love most is how unassuming you are. You always make me feel as if my feelings and opinions matter more than anything else. You never impose your own. You have no need to compete with me or constantly manage things.” 

“Oh, but I do. That’s just it. I need to micro-manage everything. All the time. If I can’t, I feel out of control. And competition?” She laughed bleakly. “You didn’t know me in school. You were a couple of years ahead. I was the most competitive student in my class. I am a perfectionist, Keith. I’m driven. That’s the truth.”

Keith’s mouth had fallen open and now he simply gaped. Might as well get it all out in the open. Hermione plunged ahead. 

“And I’m hardly lacking in opinions. It nearly killed me, keeping my thoughts to myself whenever I disagreed with you. I _hated_ that horse-drawn carriage ride in the park! I could barely stomach the sight of that poor horse being forced to endure such degrading conditions. I’m sorry, Keith, but the truth is, for me, it wasn’t romantic at all; I found it appalling! And another thing. I detest carnations. Just so you know. Oh, and…” 

She pulled out her wand and waved it slowly around her head and then down the length of her face, from the top of her head to her chin.

“ _Reverto!_ ” 

Instantly, her tawny glow faded, her pale complexion returning along with the tiny freckles that dotted the bridge of her nose. Her hair fell to her shoulders, its sleek perfection replaced by waves and curls, and the rich, red-gold highlights fading, leaving behind a pleasant but very ordinary chestnut brown. 

Now Keith’s astonishment became shock. 

“This is me. The real me.” Miserably, she raked a hand through her hair and sat down. “What you saw was artificial, right down to the clothes.” She tugged at her revealing blouse and trousers. “Not my style at all. This… everything, really… it was all a… a ruse, to get your attention.”

“It worked,” he said dully.

“I know. And I’m so sorry. Truly I am. I don’t expect you to forgive me. You deserve someone who’s completely honest with you.”

Keith sat forward now, his expression desperately hopeful despite all he’d just heard. “Surely you can’t be _that_ different, Hermione. You’re still you, right? We could make it work, I’m sure we could.”

She shook her head wistfully. “No, Keith. It would never work between us. You’d end up hating me. Hating us. I’m not right for you, and I know it now.”

Much later that night, back in her flat, Hermione sat alone in the dark and deep stillness. Everything was a mess. Either way, she’d lost the bet. Malfoy’s strategies had worked like a charm. But in the process, the object of her desire, the man she’d been so certain she wanted, had lost his appeal. Something else – some _one_ else – had taken his place. Just what was she supposed to do with that revelation? In telling her to go with Keith, Malfoy had, in essence, said no. Clearly, he didn't feel the same way, no matter what that incredible kiss had seemed to communicate.

Now what?  
  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
13 September  
Monday morning  
  
  
The tip-off should have been the fact that she still had her office all to herself at half past nine. But it wasn’t until she was summoned to Adolphus Cranford’s office that it dawned on her that maybe something was up.

What was definitely up was Cranford’s temper. In fact, it was through the roof.

“Do you have the faintest notion why Moncrieff, whose columns have been garnering a huge response virtually every time they’ve appeared, has chosen to leave The Prophet? Well, do you, Miss Granger?” he demanded, waving a piece of parchment in her face.

“What’s that?” Hermione exclaimed, reaching for the paper. “And what do you mean, he’s chosen to leave? Let me see that!” Snatching the parchment from her boss’ hand, where it had been set to do another fly-by past Hermione’s face, she sat down in the nearest chair and quickly scanned its contents.  
  
  
_Mr. Cranford,_

_Much as I have enjoyed working for The Daily Prophet alongside Hermione Granger, I have decided that the best course of action for me would be to resign. The issue is a personal one, which I believe would have an increasingly deleterious impact on my ability to function productively at the newspaper, should I continue in my present capacity there._

_Thank you for the opportunity to explore a new career option. It was truly an enjoyable experience. I have enclosed one final column, which I trust you will find acceptable. Ms. Granger will be the best judge of any errors I might have committed._

_Yours truly,_

_D. Moncrieff_

  
  
“What ‘personal’ issue could he possibly have had? He only worked here for two months, and all of that time, he was with you.” Narrowing his eyes, Cranford scrutinised his young employee closely. “What did you do to him? You must have done _something_ for him to walk out this way, without even giving proper notice! Bad form, that’s what it is. Bad form!”

There was hardly any time even to think, much less figure out some sort of reasonable explanation for Malfoy’s behavior. The only thing that made sense was that he was running scared. Something – so new, they hadn’t even had a chance to define it – had happened between them, and Malfoy just couldn’t handle it, apparently. The first disheartening indication had been when he’d told her not to cancel her weekend with Keith despite the kiss. She could never have imagined he’d take his frightened-rabbit act to the point of avoiding being in the same building with her.

“I agree, it’s terribly bad form. But honestly, nothing happened,” she lied, her own anger growing, “and I can’t imagine why he’d resign so suddenly. I didn’t do anything to him!” _Except maybe make him feel something that was just too scary to deal with!_

Well. If D. Moncrieff were going to act like a totally spineless git, skiving off his professional obligations and leaving both her and the paper in the lurch, she would simply have to step up and write his final column for him. Never mind the one he’d already turned in to Cranford. She would write a far more honest and accurate one. Hard experience had been her teacher too, and she’d make sure that this last column would be one his readers wouldn't soon forget.

Ushering her boss out the door with comforting noises of reassurance, she sat down at her desk, eager to begin. Soon, the steady sound of a quill scratching on parchment was all that could be heard, punctuated by occasional angry mutterings. 

Lunch had been caff food at her desk, and so had an early, take-away dinner. By six that evening, her wastebasket littered with all the detritus of two meals on the fly, Hermione stood up and stretched. 

Done.

Sighing, she plucked the finished column up from the desk and began to read it over.  
  
  
_In previous columns, I’ve shared my theories on the age-old battle of the sexes. However, in the interests of full disclosure and journalistic integrity, I must add one final piece to the puzzle of what makes men in particular tick, for the benefit of you ladies out there._

_Fear._

_True, men have uncomplicated needs. We really are after only the most basic gratifications in life: food, shelter, money, and sex, and of course, because the care and feeding of the male ego is huge, a woman to make us feel like a million Galleons even when we’ve made arses out of ourselves. Case in point: a chap I know, well educated and enlightened, recently became involved with a woman who was equally bright. The potential was there for a genuinely challenging relationship, but did he want a woman who could keep him on his toes and surprise him? No. He wanted someone who would flatter him, fawn on him, and prop him up at every turn. Proof positive that ego drives the male end of any relationship._

_But what happens when a woman like that chooses not to downplay her own opinions and strengths?_

_Case number two: another chap I know quite well – clever, articulate, and erudite – found himself in a genuine friendship with a smart, self-possessed, strong woman who never failed to make her opinions known and never deferred to his ego. This man discovered that despite all that, he was actually attracted to her, both physically and intellectually. The attraction was clearly mutual. Yet, when push came to shove, fear got the better of him, and he bailed._

_Fear of what, you might ask. Let's be honest, gentlemen. For virtually all of us, discovering that we are not nearly as invincible as we like to believe is about as appealing as a hard-on with nowhere to go. We can actually be wrong from time to time, painful as that is to admit. Occasionally, we might just have to defer to the superior wisdom of a woman, and no man relishes that prospect. The big "C" word can be pretty intimidating as well: commitment, aka the old ball and chain. The notion of voluntarily putting ourselves out of commission is a real turn-off. What chap in his right mind wants to hang an "off limits" sign on his back when there are beautiful, desirable women to be had? Let's face it: monogamy as a lifestyle isn't all that enticing. Rising divorce stats tell the story: if you're married long enough, the spark goes. Done. Finito. Finally, the simple truth is, we are scared to death of taking a risk with our feelings. Once bitten, twice shy, as the old saying goes. Very true where the male ego is concerned. Commitment means becoming vulnerable, opening ourselves up to the possibility of hurt and rejection. Far easier to keep that protective wall up than to risk having our trust betrayed. Better to pretend not to have a heart than to risk having it broken._

_So, ladies, if you’re wondering why your bloke doesn’t seem interested in engaging with you in a truly meaningful way, it’s just that same wall he feels bound to keep between himself and you so that he feels safe, strong, and in control. If your man seems to be hedging interminably on the commitment question, remember that inside that attractive, macho exterior, there is a scared little boy._

_Like it or not, ladies, that is the ugly truth._  


  
  


Hermione smiled, satisfied. This should do quite nicely. She’d just see how Malfoy liked a few home truths shoved down _his_ throat for a change. Turning on her heel, she marched out of her office and straight down the corridor to Cranford’s. This column would make the next edition, she would see to it.  


  
  
  


*

  
  
  
  
Reaction to the column was immediate and explosive. By Wednesday morning, the readership numbers from Tuesday’s edition were pouring in, and the ratings for Hermione’s Lifestyle section had shot even further through the roof than Adolphus Cranford’s temper had travelled two days earlier. It was all down to one column: D. Moncrieff’s. Or so readers believed.

Responses spilled over from messages written directly in answer to the column to the editorial page itself, where they outnumbered other letters to the editor five to one. Virtually every single response was from a female reader rather than a male. Ranging from sappy appreciation for Moncrieff’s honesty to irate invective on behalf of beleaguered women everywhere to empathy for the plight of threatened males (incredibly reactionary, unenlightened, and utterly lacking in self-respect, Hermione thought, incredulous), the letters kept coming, far exceeding the number that could fit into Wednesday’s edition.

Cranford was astonished, happily so. He waddled around his office and down the corridors, humming, poking his florid face into Hermione’s office several times just to beam at her and nod. 

“Now just you see if you can’t get Moncrieff to come back, Ms. Granger. He’s far too valuable a property to let him slip through our fingers, not after the response we’ve had from this last column especially. Offer him whatever he wants. Results, Ms. Granger. That’s what I expect. Don’t disappoint me!” he’d told her the last time, waggling his finger at her and then smiling thinly.

The one thing Hermione hadn’t anticipated was the public’s reaction to the column. During the writing, all she’d cared about was getting a bit of her own back, particularly in the face of the double rejection she’d endured. What really hurt, almost more than anything, was Malfoy's cowardice. _He’d run away._ He’d _really_ run away, in fact, literally removing himself from any contact with her after just one unexpected and really mind-blowing kiss. What was she, some sort of monster he couldn’t abide being anywhere near? Did she pose that much of a threat? Yes, she understood that he’d been badly hurt in the past, betrayed and used by his wife, first of all, and then others too, who were out for his money and the benefits of his social standing. But he was hardly the only man in the world who’d gone through such experiences. He hadn’t even valued what they might have had together enough to stick around and give it a chance. Instead, he’d run.

‘Grow a pair, Malfoy,’ she thought bitterly. ‘Grow UP.’

She’d never get him back to The Prophet, and she knew it. Somehow, she’d have to find a way to let Cranford down easy. For all she knew, her own job might now be in some jeopardy, irrational as that seemed. Cranford was famously thin-skinned and his temper could be erratic. Rationality didn’t figure into the scheme of things. And he already held her responsible. “You’re sacked!” had been an all too common refrain since he took over as publisher. For all she knew, she’d be hearing it herself, by week’s end.

Fortunately – or not, depending upon how one viewed things – Hermione didn’t have to lift a finger to get Draco back to The Prophet, or at least, back within its walls temporarily. On Thursday morning just before ten, a small, emerald-green conflagration flared in the Prophet’s large, central fireplace, and moments later, there was a strident pounding on her office door, enough that she feared for the state of the glass. Then the door flew open, and a furious Draco Malfoy burst in.

“What the fuck is the meaning of this, Granger?” he demanded, throwing a copy of the Prophet down on her desk. It looked somewhat ragged, the result of much obvious handling. “I should sue the Prophet for false advertising or misrepresentation of creative material or copyright infringement or… or something! What the hell were you thinking, woman, writing an article and passing it off as one of mine? How dare you use _my_ pen name and the loyalty of _my_ readers to publish such a load of crap! Do you think _anyone_ who has paid even the slightest attention to my previous columns would believe that I wrote such unmitigated shite?” His first question was already sufficiently loud, but by the last, the sound of his voice was carrying fairly far down the corridor.

“You had no right!” he went on heatedly. “Especially as I’d already turned in my own article, which you chose to disregard. You were just trying to punish me, and for what? I’d fulfilled my obligations to the letter. I had every right to quit. I wasn’t under contract. I was here on a trial basis, remember?”

Initially, Hermione had been taken aback by his entrance, but now she gazed back at him, unfazed. “Oh, I remember very well. Unmitigated shite, is it?” she replied, her voice steely. “I see. Are you really going to stand there and tell me that what I wrote _isn’t_ true? There’s shite here and it stinks all right, but it didn’t come from me. I’ll tell you what really smells, Malfoy. Your cowardice. 

“Something happened between us, and I know it took both of us by surprise, but let’s be honest. We both knew it was coming for some time. But what did you do? You left. As fast as you could possibly manage. And then, as if that weren’t bad enough, you quit your job here without a word to me. I had to find out from Cranford, who was ready to have my head! What’s the matter, Malfoy, can’t stomach the sight of me now? You were actually attracted to a Mudblood, and you just couldn’t stand the idea. Isn’t that right? Oh, and guess what?” she added, laughing bitterly. “The whole thing backfired on me anyway. The responses are off the charts! Women love you even more than before, you’ll be happy to hear. They appreciate your honesty. They find it endearing. And many of them recognise their own experiences in what you described. Except that you didn’t describe them, did you! I did!”

Somewhere along the way, Hermione’s well-modulated voice had begun creeping up in volume, and now, she was shouting. Outside her office, people began to gather in the corridor, completely agog. First, Hermione Granger had totally lost the plot and was actually yelling in public, uncaring of who could hear her. Second, and just as shocking, the mysterious D. Moncrieff was actually _Draco Malfoy?_ And said Draco Malfoy was yelling right back.

“Come on, Granger! We both know what you wrote was a load of totally useless, arse-brained psychobabble! You want to know the real reason I left in such a hurry that day? Because I knew I couldn’t compete. Keith Patrick fits that bloody checklist of yours. I don’t. The physical attraction was strong, yeah. But I knew that’s all it was. You didn’t want _me_ , not really. Not the way I wanted you. It wouldn’t have lasted. I _had_ to pull away, and not just to protect myself. There's Scorpius too. I saw the way he was with you." He laughed briefly, but the sound was harsh and mirthless. "Damned right, I was scared! Love is fucking _terrifying!_ I won't be toyed with!" 

The hushed silence in the corridor erupted in a flurry of stunned whispers. "Love?" "Did he say _'love'?_ "

For her part, Hermione seemed not to have noticed. Hands on her hips, she rounded on him, irate. “Hah, well, for your information, Draco Malfoy, I broke up with Keith last weekend! And what do you mean, you won’t be toyed with? How supremely ironic, considering that you were the one who taught me how to succeed at being coy and manipulative! All that rubbish about hooking a man and then reeling him in slowly! Push-up bras and low-cut tops and tight skirts! And those absurdly high heels! Withholding sex for as long as possible! Keeping my real opinions to myself! You’ve only yourself to blame if –”

“Fuck’s sake, woman!” Draco roared, unable to contain himself any longer. “Did you not hear me? I just told you that I’m in love with you, you silly cow, and even now, you can’t shut up!”

_Oh._

Hermione looked away for a long moment, her cheeks burning, and then gazed back at him, eyes narrowing speculatively. “Why, Malfoy? Why do you love me?”

“Damned if I know,” he sighed, shaking his head in bemusement. “I must be daft. But I do.”

The long, deep silence that followed had everyone in the hallway straining to work out just what was going on inside Hermione Granger’s office. Ears were pressed to the door, to no avail.

Just then, Adolphus Cranford marched up to the door, and without so much as a by-your-leave, he pushed it open, ready to deliver another of his ultimatums. There, in full view and standing as close together as two human beings possibly can, were Hermione Granger, Managing Editor of the Lifestyle and Weekend sections, and Draco Malfoy, aka D. Moncrieff, looking as if they were devouring each other and relishing the feast. 

Leisurely and slow, long in the making and long overdue, the kiss was everything a kiss should be and more. Even Adolphus Cranford mulishly clearing his throat failed to cause more than a momentary interruption, and then the kiss resumed, the participants happily oblivious to everything and everyone but each other.

The wedding announcement a year later was written and edited, in-house, by the bride. Additional commentary was provided by the groom, whose position at the newspaper was assured by the continued popularity of his now-daily column. Hermione’s stiletto heels were put into a box at the far back of the wardrobe, her really low-cut tops and tightest skirts relegated to special occasions. 

And the ubiquitous push-up bras? Ah, now they were quite a different story, as D. Moncrieff could happily attest.  
  
  
  
  
  


FIN

  
  
  
  
  


The Mug House under London Bridge, Tooley Street, London  
  
  
  
  
  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione%20fic%20pics/279697303_3630817a2e_b_1.jpg.html)

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione%20fic%20pics/56-3952850-bermondsey-mug-house-1.jpg.html)

[ ](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione%20fic%20pics/5d020604632598b7e6dd56161b4e9dc0.jpg.html)  


**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks, as ever, to my lovely beta, mister_otter. She is always there for me every step of the way with all my fics, and I can't thank her enough. Hugs, Carol! :-)
> 
>  _Venusta!_ – The spell that Hermione was taught in order to maintain her newly glamorous look loosely translates from the Latin to mean "Adorn!" or "Beautify!"
> 
> "The Ugly Truth" is a romantic comedy which offers a modern take on the traditional battle of the sexes motif found in earlier, classic comedies such as "The Philadelphia Story," "Adam's Rib," "Woman of the Year," (yes, all Katharine Hepburn films!), "His Girl Friday," and "The Awful Truth" (no relation to my chosen film). More about Abby and Mike and "The Ugly Truth" here:
> 
> https://www.amazon.com/Ugly-Truth-Jessica-Drake/dp/B002W8V2U0


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